


Off the Bright Side

by avengingwinter



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Football, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Champions League, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Football, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Multimedia, Pining Grantaire, dumb boys in love, enjolras tries not to be an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 63,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23943019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avengingwinter/pseuds/avengingwinter
Summary: The team is already 20 minutes into their first practice pre-season, passing the ball amongst each other on the field, when he sees Grantaire emerge from the tunnels, hair dishevelled and boots untied, clearly having woken up not long ago.He’s not ready at all, and he doesn’t even look embarrassed in the slightest, Enjolras thought to himself, head already buzzing loud with anger, the first fucking practice and he’s late by 20 minutes.We’ve been on vacation for a month already - hasn’t he slept enough?-Or; football au.Julien Enjolras is the new captain of the reigning French Champions, the Paris Amis. At 23, he has already won the European Golden Boot, the domestic league title, Coupe de France and the World Cup. This season, he's going to try and lead the Paris Amis to Champions League glory.He needs the focus of every member of the team - including goalkeeper Michel Grantaire, who is one of the best goalkeepers in the world, but seems to take pleasure in riling Enjolras up. Shitty attitude, shameless, over-the-top praises about Enjolras. Their ongoing feud has been a source of entertainment for the public for a long time - and Enjolras needs to stop it.
Relationships: Combeferre/Éponine Thénardier, Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 195
Kudos: 119





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I have been reading a lot during quarantine, and one day got pretty bored, so I just wrote something. Might as well post it! I'm really nervous though.
> 
> Anyway, this is terribly self-indulgent - I am just really pissed that there's no football for me to watch right now. English is not my first language and I haven't written fiction properly in years, seeing that what I write at school is just boring essays and Letters to the Editor. Please, if there are mistakes or places for improvement, comment. Constructive criticism is always welcome :)
> 
> Exam seasons are in June for me. So, I might not be able to update regularly by then, but I'll try my best to - and I will for sure finish this fic. Haven't got the details totally planned out yet, but I think this will be fairly long and I do have some scenes planned out in my head already.

The team is already 20 minutes into their first practice pre-season, passing the ball amongst each other on the field, when he sees Grantaire emerge from the tunnels, hair dishevelled and boots untied, clearly having woken up not long ago. 

_ He’s not ready at all, and he doesn’t even look embarrassed in the slightest _ , Enjolras thought to himself, head already buzzing loud with anger,  _ the first fucking practice and he’s late by 20 minutes. We’ve been on vacation for a month already - hasn’t he slept enough? _

When Paris Amis’ coach Jean Valjean announced towards the end of last season that Enjolras was to become the new captain after the retirement of Fredyk Feuilly (who had been team captain for 7 years by the time he retired at a ripe old age of 39), no one was really shocked. It had been what the media speculated, it had been what the fans wanted. At a mere 23, Julien Enjolras was a name any football fan in the world should be able to name. His journey in professional football will probably go down in history - joining the youth team of Paris Amis after impressing a scout in an inter school match back when he was 9, and that had been the first time he was on the field. He was tired of the football team being full of arrogant bullies who thought they were better than everyone, and had bet with Courfeyrac, a new kid at school (who would go on to become his trusted manager), that if he was to go on the field, he’d be able to outshine all the “meanies” who were busy flexing their skills rather than finding a good strategy or path to score. Little Enjolras earned a place in the starting 11 after having convinced the teacher-in-charge, to the dismay of the players on the team - “We don’t want the weird kid playing with us!” “Why put him here when all he’s going to do is shout?”, and he shut the complaints up barely 10 minutes in. Quick on his feet, he dribbled past five of the opponents with his first touch (mostly because the other kids would deliberately  _ not  _ pass the ball to Enjolras in the previous nine minutes), and slotted the ball into the top right corner of the net. In the next 80 minutes of the game, Enjolras managed to score 6 more goals in a game that ended 9-0. Needless to say, all his teammates who have been complaining when the game started were absolutely flabbergasted and Enjolras was hailed as the new hero of the team (who was he kidding? The hero of the school!) - and that was where his journey started.

If you ask Enjolras, however, he would tell you that the happiest moment of the day wasn’t  _ scoring 7 goals in his first football game _ , it was when Courfeyrac rushed towards him and gave him the biggest bear hug ever after the game - “Oh my God Enj! You were  _ flying  _ down there - you should’ve seen the faces of the audience!” - and that’s how he met his first best friend. The second-best thing he got from the game wasn’t the 7 goals either, it was how the said bullies in the team somehow got convinced by him to become accepting, nice people towards non-athletic students.

Things all went pretty much uphill from there - Enjolras knows how fortunate he is. He knows that there are countless young boys (and girls) who dream of having football as a lifetime career, looking up to players like Thierry Henry and Zinedine Zidane since young, hoping to provide a better life for their family by playing football - and that doesn’t happen, for most people. And then there’s him, a “generational talent” (Le Monde said that, not him. He’d never say that about himself), and if that itself wasn’t lucky enough, he was born to upper-class parents - renowned lawyers in the nation, in fact, who bought him the best football boots and went to all his matches in his youth. They weren’t exactly supportive at first - wanting Enjolras to uphold the family tradition of becoming a lawyer, but quickly realized that he was meant to play football when he obviously outperformed the other players in France’s best youth team constantly. Rising through the ranks quicker than anyone, bagging goals every other week in the U-9s, U-13s, even U-16s, he got his debut match in the senior team before he even turned 17. A year later, he was already a regular starter in Ligue 1, and got his first senior call-up from the national team before he became an adult.

He wasn’t hailed “the next Platini” just for his scoring ability, but also for his leadership skills and his charisma. His trademark flowing golden locks were the object of praise by countless young women all over the world, with pictures circulating all over the internet whenever he decides to fix his small bun during the match, and fans drooling all over the comments. His diplomatic yet charming way of addressing the press avoided scandals (mostly, but the same can’t be said about his online persona). His passionate speeches towards his teammates before the matches, and powerful encouragements during the games earned respect from everyone around him, even though he was considerably younger than most in the team. He knows there are people though, saying that he just got where he is because of his privileges, because his parents were able to afford the best equipment since he got into football, because he could give all his attention to football instead of worrying whether he’d have enough food for the week. So he tries his hardest every game, he gives everything he has, to try and prove the critics wrong. Yes, he is fortunate, but he has worked his ass off too, and he will show the world that he makes a damn good player and will make a damn good captain.

To say that Enjolras was livid when Grantaire decides to blatantly mock his captaincy on the first day of practice was probably an understatement. Brows furrowed in fury, Enjolras has already started marching towards the smirking figure who was carefully putting his gloves on, ready to tell him off when Combeferre tugged his jersey, not-so-subtly telling Enjolras to stop what he was trying to do.

“Ferre, let me talk! He’s late for 20 minutes. It’s the first day - and he lives 10 minutes away!” It was a hushed whisper, but Enjolras’ fury is evident.

“Enjolras, do you really think that it’s the wisest thing to do, on your  _ first day as captain _ , to start a heated argument with  _ Grantaire _ , which, may I remind you, has already put you on the front page of every sports tabloid barely a month ago?”

Enjolras would argue that, even if The Incident didn’t happen that day, they’d still technically be on the front page of every sports tabloid - maybe the focus of the report would be  _ slightly  _ different, but still - yet, he knows well that there is no point arguing here when he understands exactly that Ferre is right, as always. The last time he decided to be stubborn and ignored Ferre’s  _ friendly warnings _ , well, The Incident happened.

If Enjolras was the fiery, passionate leader, then Combeferre was the gentle soul who calms the fire, who always talked sense into him whenever he went overboard with his emotions. He met Combeferre in the U-15s of the Amis, and he has always been like a big brother to him since then. Combeferre was two years older, and when all the other kids were equally impressed and scared of Enjolras, Combeferre wasn’t afraid to tell him off when he was being a dick, and was honest in giving him opinions and suggestions on how to improve. When Enjolras invited Combeferre over to his house for a movie night, the three of them watching and crying over  _ Brokeback Mountain _ in the living room of the Enjolras mansion formed an unbreakable bond between the boys - with Courfeyrac becoming the manager of both Combeferre and Enjolras after they signed their first professional contracts together, and Combeferre and Enjolras partnering up every week on the attack of the reigning Ligue 1 champions. Opponents shivered with the mention of the deadly duo of the Amis - and with good reason. The two of them scored 77 goals altogether in the league alone last season, and wrecked the best defences in the world into pieces. Hell, the fans even have a song just for Enjolras and Combeferre.

They really didn’t like it when they first heard it - mostly because their pretentious first names are used in the lyrics. But both of them have grown pretty enamoured with the song, often sung off-key in the middle of the games, since it really showed how much the fans loved them. (“Can you believe it? They say I’m better than Led Zeppelin!”) And they were more than grateful for the Amis’ (as they called their fanbase) unwavering support, because that’s what keeps them going whenever they lose a game - not that it happened a lot, but still, it’s impossible to be at your best every single game. Last season was Feuilly’s last, and he led the team into the semi-finals of the Champions League, but they crashed out after losing 3-1 on aggregate against Barcelona. When Enjolras was close to tears, losing 2-1 at home, the fans’ chants were the only thing that kept the small, pained, polite smile on his face. Enjolras looked up to Feuilly in every single way - he definitely had a crush on him when he was a child, looking at Feuilly controlling the midfield from the stands, and now, he is determined to take the Champions League trophy home, because that’s the last thing Feuilly told him before exiting the field in their last game together. He knows that this team has got what it takes to do it, but to win the trophy over 31 other world class teams? He will need every single team member to be absolutely focused and work collectively towards the highest honour of European club football - and Grantaire’s shitty attitude, still joking around during penalty practice when he’s supposed to pay full attention in _ stopping  _ the ball, wasn’t helping at all. Combeferre didn’t allow him to walk over and scream at Grantaire, so he’ll have to work with what he can do - give his best scowl against the goalkeeper, face stoic but not lacking in annoyance. He imagines that Grantaire got his message, as he caught his glance, because what he received back wasn’t an apologetic nod or anything in that field, but a mischievous wink, which was expected.

If he kicks the ball way harder than he needs to during the two-hour practice (one hour and forty minutes with Grantaire only), then no one has to know.

-

“I don’t understand - why is he like this? Why does he get joy from not taking the practice seriously, for  _ mocking my captaincy _ ? It’s the first practice of the year - I was so looking forward to it - and Grantaire has to ruin it all but coming in late and destroying the work ethic! And I couldn’t even go and shout at him - this makes me look -”

“Hey, Enj, you know I love you, and I didn’t see what happened, but sorry to break it to you - not everything is about you, baby. He’s probably not  _ mocking your captaincy _ ,” Courfeyrac made sure to put fake quotation gestures on the direct quote, “that’s just how he is.”

“Exactly, Courf, thank you. Didn’t you see Valjean reminding R to come to practice on time tomorrow? And R works harder than you think - he does joke around here and there, but -” when Enjolras was prepared to rebut, Combeferre quickly pointed at him to stop whatever that was going to come out of his mouth, “-and don’t pretend that you don’t see it - didn’t you see how hard he worked last year? What good form he was in? And he’s in very good shape from what I’m seeing.”

“What do you mean ‘in good shape’? First of all, Valjean’s reminder isn’t going to change Grantaire’s irresponsible habits,” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes at this, obviously meaning  _ you shouting at him doesn’t change anything either,  _ “and all I saw was Grantaire was  _ joking  _ with Bahorel when he was supposed to be focusing on blocking his shot, and he -”

“Deny it all you want, but you think I didn’t catch you staring at R’s abs multiple times during the practice?”

And there it was - Enjolras knew that Combeferre noticed, and would bring it up somehow. He didn’t even  _ deliberately _ look at Grantaire’s very well-trained, uh, abdominal area, he just happened to be checking if Grantaire was paying close attention to the training when Grantaire decided to wipe the sweat from his forehead by pulling up his jersey. A few times. Maybe six or seven times. Anyway, the fact that his abdominal area is very well-trained does  _ not _ , Enjolras repeats, does  _ not  _ change the fact that Grantaire is a cynical asshole who only takes pleasure in drinking and riling him up, no matter with sarcastic remarks whenever he was briefing the strategies to the team, or with over-the-top  _ fake  _ compliments. 

Enjolras thinks he could hear Courfeyrac trying to stifle a laugh upon hearing Combeferre’s betrayal.  _ You didn’t have to call me out _ , he tried his hardest to fake-glare at Combeferre,  _ you know Courf blows every interaction I have with any male creature out of proportion and he’s going to be absolutely insufferable! _ And that is when he realizes that wait, he has left his phone in the changing room.

“Shit, I left my phone in the changing room. Can you guys come with me and get it back?”

“Sorry, dear, I have a date with Jehan,” Courfeyrac blows him a kiss in an apologetical manner, but it’s obvious that he’s not sorry at all. 

“And, uh, I’m going to go fetch Gav from school with Ep, her practice ends in 15,” Combeferre’s face is scarlet, and he does seem more apologetic, but all Enjolras can do is try to bite back his smirk and Courfeyrac - Courfeyrac doesn’t even try. He’s just making his weird wiggly eyebrows towards Combeferre.

“Well, alright, since you guys are both occupied with, ahem, important events, I’ll go get it myself. See you guys before practice tomorrow, then.”

With that, the trio parted ways and Enjolras turned back to the Stadium to retrieve his phone. See, he really is extremely happy for his best friends - Courfeyrac started dating Jehan, a journalist who he met during an interview of Enjolras three months ago. So, Enjolras likes to claim that he’s the one who brought them together. Courfeyrac seems really happy with Jehan, and Enjolras actually  _ likes  _ the guy. He isn’t like some of the other journalists, annoying, condescending, and disrespectful - Jehan actually asked interesting questions, and was obviously patient (as he listened to Enjolras rant about the inequality in the football world - how women’s football is considered as  _ less  _ when they work just as hard or even harder). Usually, after a one-on-one interview, Enjolras has to put on a feigned smile and painfully exchange goodbyes with the journalists he hates with a burning passion, and it wasn’t his fault either, he really just doesn’t like answering superficial questions that almost always appear. The interview with Jehan, though, ended with them being friends and exchanging numbers. And Combeferre  _ isn’t dating  _ (but is damn close to) Eponine Thenardier, a midfielder in the French Women’s National Team, who he met at a party Grantaire threw after the World Cup a month ago. Enjolras  _ really  _ didn’t want to go, because of, reasons, but the whole French team was going, and Courfeyrac told him that it’d be disappointing and extremely weird if the captain didn’t attend. He didn’t quite enjoy the party, but Combeferre sure did. Enjolras adores Eponine (who doesn’t?), she has mad skills in dribbling, she’s funny and snarky - all the opposite of Combeferre, really, but they somehow balance each other well. It’s painfully obvious how smitten Combeferre is, and both Enjolras and Courfeyrac have been trying so hard to convince him to officially ask Eponine out. 

However, seeing his friends’ painfully sweet love lives makes Enjolras remember the irritating questions he receives constantly from the press. “ _ Enjolras, you’re 23, you’ve won countless accolades on the field, but what about off the field? Any lucky girl that you’ve met?” “Enjolras, you’ve been quite private about your life outside the stadium. Care to share a little about your love life?”  _ It was questions like these that made him want to curl his fists and land a punch on the journalists - his non-existent love life has nothing to do with the world, not to mention that there will never be a lucky  _ girl.  _ Sometimes, Enjolras just wants to shout at them -  _ Fucking hell, I’m gay, and happily single _ \- but that is not a very presentable answer, and as much as he takes pride in his sexuality, he’d like to keep it private for just a little while more. He’d rather be married to the National Football Team any day than to actually get a boyfriend.

-

“Morning, Apollo - why are you back?” 

“Good morning, Grantaire. I left my phone in the - Grantaire, give it back, now!”

Enjolras should’ve known better, seeing the irritating smirk on Grantaire’s face as he entered the room. With Enjolras’ phone in his hands, Grantaire is busy tapping away on God knows what, and Enjolras sure isn’t happy about it. Apart from coffee, Enjolras’ phone (and social media) is probably the second-most important thing in his life, where he is able to share his life, his views on social injustice, and interact with his supporters, who are lovely in every way. He is  _ not  _ going to let anyone mess with it - not even his best friends have the passwords. 

“Aw, Apollo, I’m having fun with it - and it’s not my fault that you set the password to 1998, the whole squad could probably guess in three tries!”

“Grantaire, I said it, give it back.”

“Come on, you’re so boring!”

“Don’t make me yell at you!”

“You’re already yelling, and isn’t that what you’ve been trying to do since I entered the field this morning?”

“Oh, so you know. I didn’t even want to bring it up, but why were you  _ 20 minutes late  _ to our first practice of the season?”

“Well, I’ve got to make an entrance.”

“You’re not the focus of the practice, this is not just for fun! Don’t fuck with me, Grantaire. I don’t know what problems you have with me or whatever, I’m fine with it, but keep it out of the field. On the field, I need  _ everyone  _ to be at their best, I need  _ every single one _ of you.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what he said that was so powerful, but Grantaire seemed to shut up after that. “Well, if you say so, Apollo,” he sighed, and handed him his phone back.

As Grantaire puts his jersey and boots back into his bag (Enjolras is very glad that he didn’t have to watch Grantaire change), Enjolras checks over all his texts and social media to make sure that nothing is messed with. Messages, good, no weird texts to anyone; Instagram, good, no strange story posts; Facebook, good, no new friend requests accepted; Twitter, fuck.

-

_ - _

Three minutes, 6532 likes, 972 retweets. 

“Grantaire, get your ass back here!”

“Running late for brunch with Ep, so long, captain!”

Enjolras sincerely hopes that Grantaire can see the finger flashed towards him passionately before he steps out of the door. He probably does, since he blows Enjolras a kiss.  _ Disgusting. _

Wait. Brunch with Eponine?

“Grantaire! Get back here! Eponine has a date with Ferre, stop lying!”

Well, too late, Grantaire is already out the door.

-

_ _

_ _

_ - _

Today’s practice ended with Enjolras scowling at Grantaire for approximately 78 percent of the time, Grantaire concluded. Not a new record, the record would be 93 percent, right before The Incident, but a pretty decent performance.

“Really, R? ‘ _ I’m sexy and I know it’ _ ? How did he react?” Joly’s gaze was on his phone, laughing hysterically at the tweet, now clocking up near ten thousand likes, “his response tweet! This is seriously gold!”

“Got all petulant like a whiny child. It was adorable, really.”

“You know, have you ever considered toning down the pulling pigtails strategy a little bit? It’s entertaining, really, to see how oblivious Enj is, but it gets pretty frustrating too. You probably have to go shout ‘I love you’ into his face to get him to understand.”

“Yeah,” Bahorel joined in, “it’s just hopeless though, the whole team has known for years, even the fans caught on - and there’s Enjolras, absolutely clueless. Not to mention, remember when you  _ actually  _ pulled on his ponytail after the match against Lyon? That was comedic material.”

“I said, at least 3000 times, he better stay oblivious. I’d rather he give me scowls and yells than him ignoring me. Men live on oxygen and water, I live on Apollo’s attention. Without the disapproval, I’d earn nothing but ignorance from him, and what’s the point of living by then?”

“You know that’s not true - you’re world-class, you’re the best goalkeeper in the world right now! Last season should’ve proven it well, and he must see it too!”

_ No  _ \- Grantaire thinks -  _ Bahorel, you’re underestimating how stubborn Enjolras is. I could go a season without letting in a goal, and all I am in his mind is just the drunkard on the team, never paying attention or effort.  _

Grantaire still remembers vividly, the day he first met Enjolras. He had known  _ of  _ him for years, after all, Enjolras’ name had been plastered all over the internet for years, hailed as the country’s new wonder boy, the French national team’s future. He had seen him in the newspaper, the internet, and marvelled at his beauty, but he met him,  _ really met him, _ on a particularly sunny day four years back. The Amis had just signed Grantaire from Nice, and Enjolras renewed his contract with a release clause of 450 million Euros two days prior. It was their first practice together in the Amis, and Grantaire knew that he was absolutely fucked the moment he laid eyes on Enjolras.

He had always been beautiful, even pictures on the newspapers, but to see him, really see him in person - it was just unforgettable. He looked like a God. A piece of artwork. The God of the Sun, with his locks of gold flowing under the light, almost giving him a halo. Back then, his hair wasn’t as long, curls still flowing to the length of his ears, but he just had a headband putting his fringe in place, instead of a bun. Resting against the post, he was barely two inches shorter than Grantaire, still extremely tall for a forward. His eyes shone of sapphire blue, and his laughter roared through the field as Combeferre told him a joke. Grantaire was frozen in his place, unable to take his eyes off of Enjolras. Back then, he actually had hope, that he would one day be the subject of Enjolras’ passion, that he’d be standing on the receiving end of Enjolras’ beautiful smile.

Well, that was, until he opened his mouth, and his rare talent of self-sabotage took over.

He cringes internally at the memory - “Morning, Apollo, great of you to bless us with your godly presence. This mortal stands in front of you, bowing down in greeting. His name is -”

“Good morning, Grantaire, welcome to the Amis. Also, my name is Enjolras, not Apollo.”

Thinking back, he should’ve known. He had read numerous articles about Enjolras. He  _ knew  _ how much Enjolras hated it when people brought up his higher class upbringing, and his “Apollonian Greeting”, a legend amongst the team, can be easily interpreted as a mockery towards his background. But even after the greeting, Enjolras was still friendly, still polite, and probably a little amused (not long ago, Combeferre told him that Enjolras thought it was kind of funny, and that made Grantaire’s week, really). However, as if that wasn’t enough, by the time the first practice ended, Enjolras and Grantaire had gotten into at least three arguments, ranging from the toppings of pizza to the state of government in France. He could still remember Enjolras’ pout as they were arguing about the inequality in the football world - it was glorious. Enjolras was (is still) absolutely angelic. Absolutely adorable. Even when he frowned, he was beautiful. 

So Grantaire realized, 2 hours into meeting Enjolras, that it is practically impossible for him to receive any positive attention from Enjolras. It really is sad that he still hopes for it every now and then, but he’ll settle for a scowl, for a frown, for disapprovals. Because something is better than nothing.

He knows that he deserves the scowls. He knows he can be a dick, he knows he can get really annoying (he often does, especially towards Enjolras), he knows that most of the time he’s arguing just for the sake of riling up Enjolras. At the same time, though, he’d do anything for the man. Anything, literally. He’d wash his socks, he’d cook him dinner, he’d polish his boots - if Enjolras asked, there’s absolutely nothing he wouldn’t do. Hell, he’d quit football if Enjolras told him to. The first greeting wasn’t all that over-the-top, honestly - to Grantaire, Enjolras is a God, high up in the skies. Enjolras is his Apollo, the source of his light. And Grantaire? He’s just a mortal, begging for the grace of his God.

  
Enjolras told him today that he  _ needs  _ him. Not exactly, he said that he needs every single one of the team, but Grantaire’s included. And that’s one of the best things he’s ever gotten from Enjolras since they met. He can’t guarantee that he’d do well, and he knows he won’t be able to stop riling Enjolras up - after all, he still has trouble believing his success, even when he sees the trophy cabinet in his house - but he’ll try. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Football Glossary!
> 
> The title, Off the Bright Side, is taken from a football rule - "offside" and the term "on the bright side". Offside is when you're nearer the opposing goal line than their second-last player AND the ball, if I am expressing it correctly.
> 
> Thierry Henry: Former French forward. Leading goalscorer in the French National Football Team.
> 
> Zinedine Zidane: Former French midfielder, legendary player. One of the best players of all time, in my opinion, currently the manager of Real Madrid (one of the best teams in the world).
> 
> Platini: Michel Platini, French legend nicknamed Le Roi (The King). Even further down the history lane, he's known for his leadership skills AND ability. However, let's just pretend that in this universe he never got into the ethics violation. In reality, he got banned from football in 2015 (I think) due to corruption.
> 
> Ligue 1: Domestic league in France.
> 
> Coupe de France: Domestic knockout cup in France.
> 
> World Cup: Every 4 years, the best national teams from all over the world play a tournament. One of the highlights of any players' career is to play the World Cup and hopefully win. Personally, my favourite player has never won it. France won the Cup in 2018 in real life also.
> 
> Champions League: Every year, the best teams in top European Leagues play this tournament - so it's the highest tier of European club football. Current holder: English team Liverpool.
> 
> 1998: Enjolras' password is 1998 because that's the time France won the World Cup last before 2018.
> 
> Paris Amis is very loosely based on Paris Saint-Germain, the reigning French Champions. I got the Amis eliminated by Barcelona last year, because it's my favourite team ;)
> 
> Please, leave kudos and comments xx


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The captains of the Paris Amis give a press conference to brief the reporters about the season's objectives, but they all know that the reporters are more interested in the relationship between two certain people after The Incident.
> 
> Enjolras starts his attempt of civility towards Grantaire, and it seems to be working well at this rate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck, schoolwork is getting busy for me. I'm still in high school (First year of IB) and the exam coming up is really important for me. So I probably won't be able to write much - but I do have Chapter 3 done, and will upload it soon. I don't want to rush the chapters because whenever I rush stuff, it turns out shit. Exam is in June, so hopefully I do well. Anyway, thank you for reading this - I really am no incredible writer, so please bear with this and leave your comments below! I'm afraid I might ramble in my writing honestly. Tell me if my writing gets redundant please :) CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM IS WELCOME.
> 
> Again, all mistakes are mine. My grammar might be deteriorating (hope not though).

“See, Enj, R hasn’t been late to practice ever since the first one.”

“Yeah, it’s really good to see - but I don’t get it. Why are we happy about Grantaire being on time when that's his responsibility? This is ridiculous - and shows how ridiculous he is!”

“Well, yes, it was pretty shitty of him to be late all the time, but I talked to him about it, Valjean talked to him about it, and you promised me and Courf to give him a chance, didn't you? And he's the best goalkeeper you can ask for.”

“He's taking advantage of his talent and our dependence on him - that's so unfair! Does he understand that-”

“Enj. Don't get started on this. I'm sure he understands whatever you’re going to say, and he's doing pretty well now. Promise me, try to put the past in the past and focus on the future, eh? Captain?”

“Don't call me that,” Enjolras blushes. He takes so much pride in being the Captain of the Paris Amis, his second home basically, but he still gets pretty embarrassed whenever his teammates (especially Combeferre) calls him Captain. He has emphasised countless times that  _ while he is the Captain in name, he will do everything he can to make sure everyone feels validated and equal in the team. _

“Alright, Enj, Ferre, the press conference starts in 20 minutes, get ready. No need to fix your hair, Enj, it looks great; Ferre, make sure Enj doesn't make a fool of himself out there. Enjolras, look at me,” Courfeyrac shakes Enjolras’ shoulders firmly, “you're the new captain, the face of Paris Amis. Remember what I told you?”

“Yes, no outbursts, no eye rolls, smile at the journalists.”

“And?”

“No snarky comments about Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed, “I don't get it, still! Why is he third captain when his attendance is shit, and -”

“Enj, what did I say?” Combeferre raised his eyebrows. Whenever he does that, he looks like the strict big brother ready to ground Enjolras, and Enjolras can do nothing but listen. Even if Combeferre is almost a head shorter than Enjolras, he's the only one who could shut Enjolras up whenever he throws childish tantrums and complains. “No complaints about the Coach’s decision. Grantaire is incredibly capable, you know that, he's proven himself time after time, especially last season; he can bring the team together - not like how you do, but everyone loves him.”

Enjolras knows that. He really does. In fact, he had always noticed how talented of a goalkeeper Grantaire is. He was the one who suggested the reserve keeper of Nice when the Amis’ previous goalkeeper, Léon Babet, got into a sex scandal and was fired from the team (he didn't let Grantaire know though). They signed Grantaire, who just turned 20, to the surprise of all the major papers. No one expected Paris Amis, one of the best teams in Europe, to sign a reserve keeper from one of their rival teams as the new starter in goal. Journalists highlighted Grantaire as a newcomer with great potential back then, but no one would've expected such a move. Enjolras, though, had replayed every match played by every team in the previous season on his TV, and noticed how agile and natural Grantaire was whenever he was on the field. He mentioned Grantaire to Coach Valjean, newly appointed back then, and Valjean agreed with him. 

Four years onwards, Grantaire is one of, if not the very best goalkeeper in European football. His form wasn't the best when they first signed him - which was what frustrated Enjolras the most, because he had  _ seen  _ with his own eyes how talented Grantaire was, how good he could be. He often came to practice half-asleep, made inappropriate jokes at inappropriate times, with Enjolras as an usual subject of mockery, and even zoned out in matches sometimes, letting in unnecessary goals. Even with that, though, he had been one of the best performing goalkeepers in the League. He almost always delivers when it matters, acting as the last man of the team, preventing otherwise sure goals; and is one of the most valuable players on both club and national level. His attitude, though, never fails to infuriate Enjolras. 

To be fair, after the Champions League quarter-finals match two seasons back when Grantaire was caught humming “Hooked on a Feeling” to himself at 89 minutes, letting in a frankly stupid goal against their city rivals, Patron-Minette Paris, his attitude and effort did improve significantly. Thinking back, it was quite unfair of him to put the blame on Grantaire entirely, since the game ended in an embarrassing 5-1 loss, with most of the goals quite impossible to save. Last season, Grantaire truly established himself as a world-class goalkeeper, letting in a mere 10 goals in the whole season, breaking numerous records. So yes, Enjolras was quite proud of his teammate - he just didn’t know how to tell him that, because of their long-lasting “feud”. Even in Grantaire’s best season, his attendance was still under-par, he still interrupted Enjolras during his passionate speeches, ruining the whole mood, he still mocked Enjolras’ rants of inequality with his cynical comments in team dinners. So, Enjolras decided to express his pride towards his teammate by an interview with  _ Le Monde _ right before the World Cup final - but that didn’t turn out very well.

(“No shit, Enj! You told the reporter that ‘it was a pleasant surprise’ for Grantaire to perform this well in the season! You literally said that you expected him to be shit, and  _ right before the finals? _ ”

“Ferre, I actually, genuinely meant well!” he had whined, “ I said it was a ‘pleasant surprise’ that  _ we as a team  _ worked so well this season, and I said I’m very happy about Grantaire’s form! My direct words! The son-of-a-bitch twisted what I said! He’s making me sound like I was insulting Grantaire, but that just couldn’t be more wrong!”

“I know, Enjolras, I know you. I know you mean well, but next time, think  _ carefully  _ before you speak, alright? Journalists can be really sneaky, and you know how hurtful you can sound. Just… think about Grantaire, okay? He’s our teammate, our friend, we don’t want him to feel sad.”

“I know, Ferre, I’ll try. I’ll shut up if I don’t have anything good to say.”)

-

“Good morning, everyone. I’m Julien Enjolras, forward for Paris Amis and the new captain as of this season. Coach Valjean already conducted a Press Conference yesterday - and today’s conference will feature me and our three other captains. On my left, vice-captain Adrien Combeferre, on my right, third captain Michel Grantaire, and further down the left, fourth captain Louis Bahorel.”

Good. He glanced at Courfeyrac down the stage, and he is smiling - so he assumes that it’s a decent start.

“What do you plan to achieve as captain of the team?”

“Just as Coach Valjean mentioned yesterday, this year’s aim is simply to win all the trophies possible, most of all, the Champions League. We have never won the trophy before, only entering the finals of the competition 13 years ago, and it would be amazing if we could achieve it this year.”

“Are you confident?”

“I trust in the ability of all our teammates. I believe that it is achievable.”

“Enjolras, there are critics challenging the validity of your captaincy due to your young age. You’re the youngest among the four sitting here today, what do you have to say about that?”

Alright, smile at the journalists. Deep breaths, no outbursts.

“Excuse me, I have something to say about this,” Combeferre starts, “Enjolras is, in my opinion, more than capable to lead the team. Despite his young age, he has seven years of experience in our senior team, he has incredible goal-scoring ability and I’m sure you all have witnessed his charisma and leadership. Anyone who thinks otherwise is simply jealous.”

“I agree with Combeferre,” Bahorel speaks up, “I’ve been in the team for three years, and I can see how caring Enjolras is, and how amazing of a person he is. He’s passionate, talented and I’ve never seen anyone as hardworking as he is. Everyone in the team believes in his abilities and there should be no doubt about his captaincy.”

“And Grantaire? Anything to say about Enjolras? You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m gonna keep this short. Apollo is the best player I’ve ever seen, he’s a God amongst mortals when playing - have you ever seen how he dribbles past the opponents’ defence like they’re a bunch of traffic cones?” 

Enjolras kicks his leg under the table.  _ Stop it, Grantaire, you’re starting to go too far.  _ Luckily none of the journalists could see it, but that just seems to fuel Grantaire’s over-the-top speech even more, as he smirks, “Not only is Apollo great enough as a player, his presence on the field simply, his electric gaze can shoot daggers into anyone’s heart. When he smiles, it’s like the first rain of Spring, breathing life into you; when he rages, it’s like a scorching fire, burning through your skin. Anyone who challenges him, who thinks he’s incapable - I’m sorry, Combeferre, I don’t think they’re jealous. I think they’re simply delusional.”

Enjolras sighs. There was a strange feeling in his heart, Grantaire’s speech was truly flattering, but the fact that he doesn’t mean it, the fact that he’s trying to rile up Enjolras  _ during the press conference  _ is just frustrating. Grantaire knows very well how much Enjolras doesn’t like being praised in front of the media, the journalists he hates so much. He can see it,  _ that journalist who called Enjolras an “ignorant spoilt brat” when he delivered a speech about racism in French football, that journalist who was “unintentionally” showing her bra strap during an interview, that journalist who twisted Enjolras’ words back before the World Cup.  _ These people, listening intently to every word they say, would do anything they can to spoil their image. Tomorrow morning, they’ll probably find a way to shape Grantaire’s words into some deliberate, sarcastic insult - making up a story  _ “Amis Captains Throw Shade At Each Other!”,  _ and most of the readers will probably eat them up. After all, the media seems to find tremendous pleasure in creating stories centering on the mysterious relationship between Enjolras and Grantaire. Do they really hate each other? Can they work together? That’s what frustrates Enjolras, the general public believing in everything the journalists say, without actually trying to understand the truth. 

Deep breaths. Don’t let your strong opinions on the stupid media get to you. Smile.

“So, incredibly positive comments about you, Enjolras. There have been many, many occasions showing you and your third captain, Grantaire, failing to get along. To name a few, after the Amis’ exit in the Champions League two years ago, where you called Grantaire, quote, ‘absolutely fucking useless, daydreaming on the field’, after conceding two goals in two minutes versus Amiens, ‘it seemed like he had given up, we were basically playing with ten men’, and of course, in the World Cup closing ceremony after France’s win. How will you tackle this problem? If you can’t respect your fellow captain, how will you hold the group together? If the problem between you two can overshadow a World Cup win, how will your team manage?”

The long-awaited question - Enjolras has practiced the answer for this at least fifty times at home yesterday. He could feel Grantaire freeze up completely on his right, and Combeferre squeezing his arm under the table.  _ Think before you speak, Enjolras. _

“First of all, let me just thank all my fellow captains for the amazing words just now - I will do my very best, as a captain, to make sure everyone in the Paris Amis feel validated and useful. I will work hard in the team, for the team, with the team. Secondly, to answer your question, Grantaire and I are getting along just fine. I am ready to put the past in the past, and I believe that he is, too,” he looks at Grantaire with fervent eyes, and Grantaire nods firmly, “I understand that I have been immature at times in the past, especially my insensitive comment two years ago. I have taken to social media to apologize for it, multiple times, and I want everyone to know that I’ve grown up already. Both of us have matured from before, and I will be responsible, respectful, and hopefully, Grantaire and I’s friendship will only grow closer from now on.”

“Grantaire and I are very different people,” he continues, “We have many conflicting opinions in many areas, and that probably will never change. I will continue to voice out my opinions, and he will continue to roll his eyes,” he knows Grantaire  _ must  _ be rolling his eyes at that, “However, I value his place in the team dearly. We all do. He’s a great player, his form has been constantly improving in the past year, and I look forward to working with him.”

Combeferre squeezes his hand,  _ Good answer, Enj. I’m proud of you.  _ He looks at Courfeyrac down the stage, letting out a breath of relief. He glances at Grantaire - looking down at the table, is he blushing? Hiding a smile? 

The other questions of the press conference feel easy as a Sunday morning, after that.

-

“Grantaire.”

“Yes, Apollo?” he feigns a salute. He never knows what the correct way it is, to address Enjolras. He probably would appreciate it if Grantaire gave him a normal, “hi,” or, “Enjolras,” but that would be painfully inadequate. A simple hello is for mortals, and Enjolras deserves beyond.

“Thank you, for, uh, being responsible, and normal - in the press conference.”

“I know you probably expected me to flail my arms and act like a moron, and I don’t blame you,” he shrugs, casually, “but well, I’m glad to provide a  _ pleasant surprise _ .”

“Surely you _ know _ that’s not what I meant, and not what I mean right now,” Enjolras sighs, exasperated. “I’ve explained it to you. And you need to know that I meant it when I say I want to be friends, and we have to work together in the future,” he pauses again, “I think highly of you, Grantaire. More than you know.”

He turns his head, and walks away to join Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

_ I think highly of you.  _ Those five words, alone, could probably be Grantaire’s source of happiness for five weeks straight, but all he could think about right now is just how he just ruined a perfectly civil exchange between him and his Apollo by sounding salty, again. He  _ knows  _ that Enjolras, noble Enjolras, probably really wants to ignore how useless, how stupid Grantaire is, and work together. He really didn’t mean for his words to come out that way, he didn’t even mean to emphasize on those two words - at this point, it doesn’t even hurt anymore, to know that Enjolras has close to no expectations on him. He was born to be a disappointment, to his parents when he was young, failing every Math exam there was; and after leaving home at 13 for Nice, he thought,  _ maybe _ he was done being a disappointment - he actually seemed promising. The coaches thought that he had a shot in the football world - then came the alcohol. Fucking Gueulemer, bringing him to bars when he was 15 and depressed - telling him that alcohol is the source of happiness. By the time he joined the Amis, he was no longer dependent on alcohol. The occasional bad days when he felt like the world was crashing down? The anxiety and depression from his shitty parents? They were just residue now,  _ there  _ in his mind but not really affecting him. He knows how alcohol will ruin his career, and he isn’t going to let anything take football - the only good thing in his life - away (unless Enjolras tells him to). He’s doing pretty good, judging from his constant form in the previous season. He was breaking records, getting Man of the Match awards, people actually liked him, for his skills (and even his personality?), he had great friends… but the “ _ pleasant surprise _ ” interview happened, and all the happiness that Grantaire was feeling back then - in the World Cup finals, keeping three consecutive clean sheets, hailed as the nation’s hero when he punched two penalties out in the shootout - all came crashing down.

He had worked hard, really hard, to prove to Enjolras that he was worth a place in the team, after hearing what he said in the post-game interview with Patron-Minette. He was humming, which was irresponsible, he’ll own up to it, and Enjolras was probably equally frustrated and angry and sad about the results when he made the “useless” comment. It hurt, quite a lot, but he understood, and he was fine with it. He just had to work harder to tell Enjolras that,  _ hey, I can be useful. Look at me! I’m going to do better.  _ And for a period of time, it seemed like Enjolras noticed. Not only did he comment on Grantaire’s attitudes less, he actually  _ smiled  _ at him after well-played matches. But of course he never expected it, of course, in his mind, Grantaire is just a sore thumb in the team who he never expected to depend on, who he never expected to play well. So, well, The Incident happened. He disappointed Enjolras once again, and so badly that he doesn’t expect any chance to redeem himself anymore. But Enjolras has been civil to him so far, even touching on  _ nice,  _ and what he said in the press conference and after? It gave Grantaire  _ hope,  _ and that was so fucking unfair. Grantaire had been trying to come to terms that he would always be a shithead drunkard in Enjolras’ head, and he was actually succeeding. 

The world has always been unfair, though, and since when were Gods fair on mortals?

-

July 13, 2018

By Etienne Gillenormand

**France Superstar Admits Low Expectations on His Teammate**

(Moscow, Russia) Superstar player Julien Enjolras (23) admits during an interview with  _ Le Monde  _ that he has had low expectations on his teammate Michel Grantaire (24), quoting, it was a “pleasant surprise” that they worked well in club level in the previous Ligue 1 season, and that he was happy for Grantaire’s good form in both national and club.

When asked if he means that he has had low expectations before the start of the season, Enjolras had switched to a more diplomatic, classical “Enjolrasian” answer - “Grantaire has always been a very talented player. Frankly, I’m just extremely happy to see him achieving new heights and playing well, especially because we are teammates. It is always good to see your teammate play well, isn’t it?” Very well, but the  _ pleasant surprise  _ you mentioned had expressed your true opinion enough, Julien.

Both Enjolras and Grantaire are a part of France’s new “Golden Generation” national team, going into this year’s World Cup with a near-perfect record in qualifying matches. With an average age of 25.6, the squad is one of the youngest in the tournament. Achieving all wins in the group stage, including a 7-0 win against China, and three straight clean sheets in the elimination stage - the most recent being a 0-0 draw against Belgium in the semi-finals, winning 4-2 on penalties. Enjolras is the leading goalscorer of the tournament, with 9 goals scored already, looking to hit double digits on Friday the 15th, in the final against Italy.

The two young stars are teammates on both Club and National level, having been partners in French champions Paris Amis since Grantaire’s signing in 2014. Last season marked the Amis’ best ever season, 28 points ahead of second-place Patron-Minette, and Paris native Enjolras winning the European Golden Boot with 49 goals in his account. Grantaire, on the other hand, had his best-ever season, conceding only 10 goals, with 28 consecutive clean sheets. His vast improvement in form had been credited by critics for his change in attitude, with better focus and fitness. The general public, especially Amis fans, however, views Enjolras’ panning on Grantaire’s performance as “[redacted] useless” last year after crashing out of the Champions League in an embarrassing manner as the reason for Grantaire’s sudden change in form. There has been speculation among fans that Grantaire has a romantic interest towards Enjolras, or even a secret relationship between the two, but both sides of the rumour have not commented on it.

It is not known whether Enjolras’ comment in this interview will put a strain between the star players of the tournament or affect France’s performance in the finals. Currently, France remains the crowd favourite in winning the tournament.

\- 

“Fuck off, that Gillenormand guy again! I’ve said none other than good things about Grantaire, and he manages to say that we’re ‘faking our friendship’ for the sake of the press conference?”

Combeferre called up Courfeyrac and Enjolras to his house for the weekly Triptych movie night gathering a few hours ago, but all Enjolras could focus on right now is the “atrocious news article” that Gillenormand put out after the press conference yesterday. “ _ Enjolras and Grantaire No Longer In Disagreement - Or Is It Just For Show?”  _ it said, detailing all the so-called body movements of the two of them in the press conference, and how it apparently implies that Enjolras is “forcing his positive words about Grantaire out”, and Enjolras’ “forced smiles” and “pursed lips”, he gets angrier every single word he reads. By the time he finishes the article, his face was already blotched with red, teeth clenched in anger. “What a fucking twat - my  _ forced smiles  _ and  _ pursed lips  _ is because I have to face people like him - not because of Grantaire!”

“Calm down, Enj, sit down, turn off the screen, please.” Enjolras has to give Courfeyrac that - he’s always been the jokester out of the three best friends, but he always knows when he needs to be serious. He puts his palm on Enjolras’ shoulder, rubbing circles gently, trying to calm him down. Combeferre is the voice of reason, but before being hit with reason, Courfeyrac’s soothing words and actions are the things Enjolras needs right now.

Deep breaths. Fuck Gillenormand. Everything he’s saying is wrong.  _ So wrong. _

Five minutes of Enjolras scowling at the dark screen of his phone was enough to calm him down mostly, with the anger reducing to a slight frown between his eyebrows. As Courfeyrac and Combeferre go over the article, shaking their heads at the most ridiculous claims, for example, “Grantaire’s claims of Enjolras resembling Greek God Apollo is an indirect blow at Enjolras’ inborn prejudice, appearing as obnoxiously honest, often towards him”, and “Enjolras’ subtle glances towards Combeferre towards the end of the press conference shows his reluctance of looking at Grantaire” - and the worst part? There are actually people, mostly Patron-Minette fans who already hate Enjolras, buying it. 

“Well,” Combeferre adjusts his reading glasses, which he always wears out of the field, “that really was a shitty article. At least most people are defending both of you, and your fans are spitting attacks towards Gillenormand.”

“I’ve never been more grateful for my _passionate_ crowd of fans,” Enjolras chuckled, as he scrolled through the comments section of the original post. Of course, there are internet trolls and haters eating up the stupid “analysis”, but just like Combeferre said, there are more people being reasonable and defending Enjolras and Grantaire. “I’m so sorry for lashing out when we’re supposed to have a boys’ night and watch a nice movie together.”

“Don’t worry about it - what are best friends for? Remember that time when Marie broke up with me back in high school, and you two just cuddled me for the whole night while I was crying like a baby?” Courfeyrac just laughed, “She was a bitch who treated me like shit anyway!”

“And to think she texted you and begged you to take her back when you appeared in the newspaper with us the first time, what a gold-digging bitch!”

“Courf’s breakup with Marie was a classic - but remember that one time in Winter break when I got a stomach bug and was puking in the toilet the whole night when we planned to watch  _ Toy Story 2?”  _ Combeferre joined in, “That was pretty bad also!”

“Well, I mean, it was going to be the third time watching it - and yeah, that was so disgusting! Luckily you got better before Christmas came around, or else it’d be the  _ shittiest _ Christmas ever!”

“Shut up, Courf, you’re not funny,” Combeferre rolled his eyes, but was biting back a smile.

“What do you mean? I’m the king of jokes and puns, and I’m a hundred times funnier than both of you! Look - Enjolras is laughing!”

“The funniest joke you said tonight was that you’re the king of jokes and puns!”

So, instead of watching  _ Titanic _ again like they originally planned, they spent the night recounting all the times when they gave up their movie nights for heart-to-hearts or emergencies. Ranging from when Combeferre failed an exam for the first time, to Courfeyrac crying and whining about how much he loved everyone after a wisdom teeth removal he completely forgot about, to Enjolras’ mini-breakdown the day after Zidane’s infamous headbutt of 2006. 

“Guys?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Am I really  _ that  _ terrible to Grantaire, that the news tabloids have to twist everything I say to make it sound like I hate Grantaire? I mean, he’s ridiculously annoying usually, but I don’t  _ hate  _ him.”

“Enj -”

“Be honest, Ferre, I want to know.”

“You’re really not, not anymore, at least. The whole team can see that you’re trying to be as nice as you can, at least this year, and even last year. You guys got off the wrong foot, yeah, but everyone can see how hard you’re trying, and we love you for it, alright? You were really pretty brutal before that, but it’s okay - you’ve changed, and it’s the tabloids’ fault they decide to get hung up on the past you, get it?”

“But The Incident -”

“Enjolras, you were mean that day, but knowing you, it could’ve gone even worse. Also, he deserved some sense smacked into his head too. He was reckless, irresponsible - and you were angry, disappointed. Both of you held equal responsibility. I've told you many, many times.”

“How am I going to make the tabloids shut up? I just want them to focus on the achievements that our team is going to make, and I want them to focus on football, not ‘does Enjolras really hate Grantaire’! So what if I did? And how am I going to start being friends with him if the journalists are being so annoying?”

“You've been dealing with the press for years now, Enj, you should know,” Courfeyrac pipes up sympathetically, after all, he is more familiar with the press than Combeferre is. “Journalists like drama, and people like drama. You scoring a scorpion kick won't get as many clicks as you storming out on Grantaire. You just have to do your job, ignore the gossip, maybe deny some of the most ridiculous ones, and let the public see. Most of them have eyes.”

Enjolras really doesn't know how much of a saint he must have been in his past life, for him to be able to meet these two amazing people in this life. He must've sacrificed his life for the people or something - he really doesn't deserve Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He knows that he's arrogant at times, obnoxious, hurtful, thoughtless. But they're always able to see through his fury and calm him down, call him out on his bullshit, yet comfort him when rare moments of insecurity take over. This season will be a new start, for him, for the team - and he's so grateful that his two best friends will be standing right by him through the journey.

That night, as the three boys cuddle on Combeferre’s ridiculously comfortable couch, Enjolras dreams of winning the Champions League trophy.

-

_ [ _ **_From: apollo_ ** _ ] Fuck Gillenormand. Just wanted to let you know, all the things he said were bullshit. _

Grantaire stares at his phone, unable to move. He has already checked five times whether the number was correct - Enjolras texted him, voluntarily. To tell him that he doesn’t hate Grantaire. He pinched himself again, and whimpered slightly - okay, not in a dream then.

_ [ _ **_To: apollo_ ** _ ] i know, don’t worry. Me too - i meant what i said for real. _

He really needs a drink.

But no - he promised himself he won’t drink his problems away again. There is no practice tomorrow, but he still really shouldn’t do it. Every time he thinks of Enjolras’ face on that fateful practice, he remembers how alcohol can ruin his day, his week, his life. 

But he really, really needs a drink.

_ No, Grantaire,  _ the voice of reason in his head says,  _ But you aren’t even going to see Apollo tomorrow,  _ the other voice in his head shouts. He really doesn’t need that evil, tempting voice to go any louder - so he pulled out his phone again to find the bookmarked video in his YouTube, clicked on it, and yeah. The Incident plays again in his head - and he walks away from the fridge with a cup of iced water. He’s not even doing this  _ just _ for Enjolras, it’s about time he stops embarrassing himself in front of the public. He imagines himself, as a child, seeing Oliver Kahn on-screen, drunk and rambling nonsense.  _ That’s what he looked like to the kids then,  _ he thinks,  _ not going to let it happen again. _

-

A Transcript of: **Pre-Ceremony Interview With Julien Enjolras and Michel Grantaire,** 4,294,183 views, posted July 17, 2018

Reporter: Enjolras, congratulations on the Golden Ball and the Golden Boot of the game. 10 goals in the tournament, equalled Gerd Muller and only behind fellow Frenchman Just Fontaine’s 13 goals!

Enjolras:  _ (obviously extremely happy, unable to contain his grin as he flashes his perfect teeth towards the camera)  _ Thank you. It is an honour to be compared to legends like Muller and Fontaine.

Reporter: What do you want to say about teammate Michel Grantaire who won the Golden Glove of the tournament? Have you congratulated him?

Enjolras:  _ (face falls, tight-lipped)  _ I am very proud of our team for performing well in the tournament. The most important thing, for me, is not just performing in the game, but also working hard before and after the game. It is our responsibility to play well, and stay in good health.

Reporter: You did not answer my question. 

Enjolras: Nice observation.

Reporter: Is what you just said, however, a shade towards Grantaire being photographed getting drunk in a bar two nights ago before your final practice session?

Enjolras:  _ (scowls)  _ I will not comment on that.

Reporter: Can you give us a simple comment on Grantaire’s performance in the tournament?

Enjolras:  _ (sighs, hands on his hips)  _ Stop asking me about him. I’ve said all I have to say.

[ _ Cut to Grantaire, standing at the same place Enjolras was three seconds ago, bottle of vodka in hand.] _

Reporter: Grantaire, are you … drunk?

Grantaire: Drunkenness is a social construct…  _ (chuckles loudly and points at the reporter, slurring out his words)  _ that’s what Apollo would say. Our avenging angel.

Reporter: Since you mentioned him, just now I interviewed your “Apollo”, Julien Enjolras. He seemed reluctant to talk about you - wouldn’t give any comments on your incredible performance throughout the tournament. Did you two have an argument?

Grantaire: Argument?  _ (chuckles bitterly) _ Do I even qualify to have an argument with such a beautiful creature?  _ (coughs, starts dramatically)  _ All I ever wanted was - 

_ [Enjolras’ golden curls appear on screen. He shouts in French: “Grantaire, are you still fucking drunk? Get the fuck out of here! Stop making a fool out of yourself in front of the reporter!”] _

Grantaire:  _ (eyes downcast, shrugs)  _ Well, you heard him.

**View all comments (3281)**

FootballFan1: Poor Grantaire - Enjolras was so such a dick here! Who is he to shout at his teammate like this? - 472 likes

  * View all replies (823)
  * EnjolrasIsKing: That’s unfair towards Enjolras. Grantaire showed up drunk to practice, and got drunk again even after the match. That’s pretty unprofessional for a footballer, and he has the right to be angry. - 904 likes
  * Vincent.Josh: Yeah… but Enjolras could’ve been a bit nicer. Grantaire seemed so sad towards the end of the interview… - 672 likes
  * parisAmisFan: Throughout the last season Enjolras has been less vocal about his critical comments towards Grantaire already - he must be really angry here. - 324 likes



RlovesE: Fill in the blanks. All I ever wanted was __________ - 849 likes

  * MGrantaireFans: for Enjolras to love me back. - 1832 likes
  * View all replies (1032)
  * ItalianoSupport: another bottle of vodka. - 492 likes
  * EquipeGoWin: +ItalianoSupport Grantaire has been working hard on his drinking problem, stop making fun of it, fuck you! You’re just jealous cause you lost the game. - 770 likes
  * Victoria2002: I don’t really understand why everyone is saying that Grantaire likes Enjolras? Can anyone explain please? - 532 likes
  * MGrantaireFans: +Victoria2002 here are some videos. Get Me A Man Who Looks At Me Like How Michel Grantaire Looks At Julien Enjolras, 9 minutes of Grantaire Stealing Glances at Enjolras During a Game, Grantaire Being Lovestruck Whenever Enjolras is Mentioned \- 741 likes
  * Victoria2002: +MGrantaireFans Oh my god. - 123 likes
  * MGrantaireFans: +Victoria2002 welcome to the club - 80 likes



-

Grantaire thinks that it’s incredibly unfair for most of the reporters and tabloids to shape Enjolras into the insensitive, mean bastard after that interview, and more famously, the actual closing ceremony itself - at least most of the fans can see that Enjolras was already keeping his emotions in check. It was, mostly, his fault, for pissing Enjolras off so badly the day before - and he really doesn’t blame Enjolras. He had disappointed Enjolras, once again, with his stupid self-hatred and lack of self-control, and he deserved a lot worse than what Enjolras gave him, probably.

Everyone thinks so, too. He knows. Usually, after every time Enjolras lashes out on him, Bahorel will give Grantaire a big hug and talk shit about Enjolras, as Grantaire sulks in agony; Courfeyrac will go to Grantaire and apologize on Enjolras' behalf (which really, he doesn’t need to), and tell Grantaire that Enjolras “doesn’t really mean it”; Combeferre will go and give Enjolras a big lecture on letting his brain process the words before he spits them out of his mouth. After The Incident, however, Bahorel opted out of talking shit about Enjolras; Courfeyrac just went to Grantaire and explained that “Enjolras was very upset, you have to understand that” without the apology; and Combeferre, from what he heard, just went to Enjolras’ room and gave him ice-cream to calm him down - no lectures. He was a complete shithead that day, and his friends were just way too caring to call him out.

(Did Combeferre give Enjolras Rocky Road? Every time there’s ice-cream for the team, Enjolras always lunges for the Rocky Road like a child, it’s adorable. He loves the marshmallows inside.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually really liked reading Le Monde while I was learning French back in the days when I was like 10, 11, though I didn't understand 90% of it. It's just the first French newspaper that came up my mind, I'm aware that it's probably not the shitty, biased paper with asshole reporters like I mentioned here.
> 
> Chapter 3 will be all about The Incident. Kudos and comments are always, always welcome!   
> Football seems to be starting soon, I'm happy. However, I really hope the footballers will be safe.
> 
> Football Glossary!
> 
> China actually didn't get into the World Cup 2018. I just used the Chinese team because it's just not that good. (Am I from China? Well, complicated question. The national team of my home is not China, but I do live in China geographically. Let's not go into politics here, though Enjolras would be proud of me if I go on a 10k word rant on the political state here.)
> 
> Zidane's infamous headbutt of 2006: Well, I was 3, so I don't remember watching it. Anyway, Zidane, French legend in the last match of his career, World Cup Final against Italy, headbutts Marco Materazzi because apparently Materazzi insulted his sister (?) - anyway. Zidane got a red card and France went on to lose the finals. It was a sad yet incredibly memorable ending to his career. Pretty sure French people were devastated + shocked as FUCK that day.
> 
> Oliver Kahn: German former goalkeeper, legendary. Pretty hot-headed if I am not mistaken.
> 
> Gerd Muller: German former striker, renowned clinical finisher, considered as one of the greatest of all time. 
> 
> Just Fontaine: French former forward, scored 13 goals in World Cup 1958. Crazy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened in July. The Incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting quite busy with school - so I might not be able to update much til late June. Maybe once, then late June. But I promise I'll continue to write this - school is just more important rn.
> 
> Enjoy x
> 
> My family doesn't drink and I haven't been to a club before. It's illegal for me to drink anyway, so I don't really know what it's like to be drunk - just my imagination running through!
> 
> Again, all mistakes are mine.

**July 13, 2018**

Bahorel is out in the gym. Grantaire sits in his bed, shoulders slouched, thumb hovering over his phone, screen frozen on the new article published in  _ Le Monde.  _ It shouldn’t hurt, he thinks, he should be used to it by now. It’s not Enjolras’ fault that he was born with such passion for… everything. It’s not Enjolras’ fault that he cares about discipline so much - it’s a good thing, and it’s definitely not Enjolras’ fault that Grantaire had been an absolute nuisance in the team for years.

It’s just… he’s tried so hard, and he thought he was doing well, he thought Enjolras was growing tolerant, maybe even friendly towards him.  _ Stupid brain, _ he cursed,  _ who allowed you to give me hope? _

He’s been working hard since last Summer, after Enjolras called him useless in front of the world. He had already known that Enjolras didn’t like him, he had already known Enjolras hated how he was always late to practice, how he barely tried outside of official matches. So he completely changed himself - he cut down on his junk food, he made sure he was awake and energetic every morning before practice, he even went to the gym before the Sun was up on off days. His dives for goals were faster, his interviews were more eloquent, his goal kicks were more accurate. He still riled Enjolras up, still scoffed whenever Enjolras talked of his patriotism and pursuit of justice, but Enjolras seemed to  _ respect  _ him. He was happy. He smiled a lot more, genuinely, he felt better about himself, he looked better - his body was more toned, his hair was more tidy, his fanbase was growing exponentially - for once, everything was going well. He could almost call Enjolras his friend.

Turns out Enjolras never expected him to do anything good - and he felt the need to go schedule an interview,  _ right before the World Cup finals, _ to tell the world about it. What a way to get your message across, huh?

It fucking hurts, when your subject of adoration loathes you so much that it shocks him when you’re not acting like an obnoxious, unprofessional moron. He needs to get his mind away from this. He needs to try and forget about it. Just a little.

-

Two hours later, Grantaire is dancing inside a random club in the middle of Moscow with countless strangers, Rihanna blasing into his ears, disco lights of various colours surrounding him, trying to drown his wave of thoughts. He’s not yet drunk, but tipsy enough to laugh with the blond girls who were not-so-subtly trying to ease towards him.

He looks down onto his red cup, filled with vodka.  _ Red reminds me of Enjolras. _

_ Fuck, I’m here to forget about him. I need more drinks. _

Russian vodka must be stronger than the ones back home, because he’s positively drunk in half an hour. The girls who were trying to near him back then were already sitting on his lap, as he slurred, “ _ I’m not interested in you,”  _ but they won’t leave. And Grantaire won’t push them away either - arms wrapped around their shoulders, they offer him a little warmth and companion that he desperately needs right now. Even when drunk, Enjolras occupies his mind - by now, he has already given up on trying to forget about him, because he knows he’s physically unable to stop thinking about him. He’s now resorting to letting his mind loose enough to occupy himself with wilder thoughts, which might be able to drown his consciousness which sings Enjolras’ name just as angels sing about their God. Just that he’s nowhere near an angel, simply a mortal who foolishly let himself believe that he was worth his Apollo’s attention - and was let down painfully. He knows he should stop, rationally, there must be paparazzis waiting to catch him wasted right before the finals, catch him fall back into his downward spiral but even worse - but he couldn’t care less right now. There are people all around him, asking him for pictures, for signatures on their shirts, and he just doesn’t have it in him to stop. He’s wanted here, and it makes him happier than he should be. He gets up, and dances on the tables as people of all genders and nationalities raised their phones, recording him. This is not going to end well, but he’ll leave his worries for tomorrow. 

When he leaves the bar nearing two in the morning, he just grins maniacally at the cameras outside the club, journalists shoving their microphones towards him, obviously having seen the clubgoers Snapchat stories trending online.

-

Combeferre shares a room with Enjolras - a routine now, for both of them, since their first senior call-up to  _ Les Bleus  _ together years ago. 

“Come on, Enj, calm down - go to sleep. It’s nearing midnight, and we have practice tomorrow morning at 9 - you need rest!”

“I can't fucking believe this -” he shoves his phone into Combeferre's palm, the video of Grantaire dancing to Flo Rida’s  _ Low  _ looping, “he's getting fucking wasted. Dancing on the tables with strangers. Does he have any idea what his role is? What he is supposed to do right now? Does he understand the definition of  _ behaving  _ himself?”

“I know, I know - but we can’t afford to have  _ both  _ our stars sleep-deprived tomorrow, right? We'll deal with him in practice.”

“Sleep-deprived? I wish! He's fucking wasted! I don't understand! I thought he had changed - he had been performing so well lately! Why does he have to ruin all of this right before the biggest match of our lives? Why is he so  _ reckless _ ? Does he ever think about us, his teammates?”

“R has been trying hard, you know, you see it,” Combeferre sighs, somewhat sadly, “There's probably something bothering him really badly for him to be like this.”

“Do you know something that I don't? Why is everyone making excuses for him?”

“No, Enjolras -” he pauses, “there  _ is  _ no excuse, what he's doing, but we’ll let Coach Lamarque decide how to punish him tomorrow, okay? What I'm saying is,  _ you _ need to sleep right now, or else we'll have even more problems. No one wants to deal with a sleep-deprived Enjolras, and you know that.”

It's obvious how Combeferre is hiding  _ something _ , but Enjolras decides to let it slip. He's not all that interested, and he's pretty tired. The fact is, Enjolras couldn't sleep even if he wanted to. He'd already been pissed off from reading the article Gillenormand put out hours ago, shaping his words into something he did not mean. He has already had a long conversation with Combeferre, ranting about how  _ evil  _ mainstream media is, with Combeferre calming him down gently, while reminding him to  _ think, think and think again  _ before he says anything in the future.  _ The power of mainstream media is stronger than you think. _ He has taken to social media, both Twitter and Instagram story, to clarify his stance on Grantaire - stating his direct quotes in the interview, emphasising that  _ The article published earlier today does not illustrate the truth, and no, he does not have low expectations on Grantaire - he expects as much from Grantaire just as much as he expects from any other teammate.  _

What an irony, he laughs bitterly. The stupid fucking journalist decides to say that he has low expectations, when he literally has  _ too high  _ of an expectation on Grantaire, judging from now. It wasn't even anything unattainable - it was just  _ basic,  _ expecting him to keep his act together, be responsible and have a good schedule to keep himself ready for practice, ready for the finals. Since he was appointed the captain of the National Team three months before the world cup, Enjolras has stated over and over again that he values discipline in the team as much as ability, with the agreement of everyone,  _ including Grantaire _ . He had expected Grantaire to, at the very least, stay in his room and sleep before 1 AM the day before the last practice. Why does he have to keep doing this - does he find so much pleasure in making Enjolras upset, that he has to build a façade of professionalism throughout the whole year, letting Enjolras count on him before letting all of this crash down, two days before the event the whole nation was waiting for with baited breath? Does he hate Enjolras so much that he is willing to let down the whole nation just to see Enjolras disappointed? 

(He knows that's probably untrue. He trusts Combeferre when he says that there  _ is  _ some unknown thing bothering Grantaire, but that is the only reason he could come up with right now - and if he doesn’t come up with a reason, he’d be even angrier.) 

He glances at his phone again. 14 messages in ten minutes, mostly from frantic teammates, and a few apologising on Grantaire’s behalf.  _ It's not your responsibility to apologise, I'm not mad at you. It's him who needs to apologise, and to France, not to me _ , he replies. The most recent message is from Cosette, the PR manager of the team -  _ Hey Enj, want me to put out a message? Lamarque told me to ask you. He says he's quite disappointed, but you'd be even more upset. _

Enjolras loves Coach Lamarque. He has been the manager for the French National Team for years - and since his first senior call up at 17, he has put nothing but trust in Enjolras. Lamarque would listen to Enjolras intently whenever he has suggestions about the strategies - and he actually considers them. There are countless coaches out there, Enjolras knows, who would probably deem Enjolras as an arrogant, annoying pest and would just swat him away, but Lamarque actually  _ discusses  _ with Enjolras and has taught him so many things. Not only do they talk about football strategies, Lamarque has taught Enjolras so much about social injustice and the state of government in France - apparently, he had studied Political Science in his youth. To him, Coach Lamarque is not just a manager, but also a teacher. 

_ No,  _ he typed,  _ no need to put out a message. We’ll see how we deal with this in the morning. _

He knows the videos are trending, he knows there must be thousands of people talking about this online. The notifications blowing up all over his social media apps show it - there must be thousands of people tagging him, waiting for him to comment on this. Italians must be buzzing with joy, knowing that France’s goalkeeper is out drinking his ass off at midnight - probably feeding him with more drinks. He doesn’t know how people are reacting back home - disappointed? Would there be petitions to kick him off the starting 11 in the finals? If it comes to the decision,  _ should he  _ be kicked out? How bad, right now, is the backlash? Frankly, though, he just couldn’t bring himself to clicking into the apps. There are already so many thoughts buzzing through his head, and he cannot afford to let even more stress take over him. Combeferre is right, he’s beaten and he needs the rest.

He’s furious. Absolutely furious.  _ Doesn’t he realize that this is bigger than him? Doesn’t he realize that his actions affect the whole team? Doesn’t he realize that we’re carrying the dreams of a nation?  _ With his eyes, he had witnessed so many flashes of genius from Grantaire - his agility, his vision, his accuracy is unparalleled. So why doesn’t he do the same out of the field? Open his fucking eyes and see how childish he is being? Childish Grantaire, reckless Grantaire, irresponsible Grantaire.

As he finally drifts off to sleep, all he could think about is Grantaire.

-

Grantaire staggers into the training field, looking a hundred percent hungover. Enjolras turns his back on Grantaire, refusing to look at his dishevelled hair and the bags under his bloodshot eyes.

“Good morning, Apollo,” he hears from behind.  _ The words are slurred.  _

So that’s how he wants it to go.

“Are you seriously talking to me right now, Grantaire?” he snaps, staring into the brown eyes. He is two inches shorter than the goalkeeper, so he has to look up slightly, but he is positive that the blatant fury boiling up in his blood is enough to get his message across.  _ Grantaire’s eyes scream shame and regret. Good.  _ “How do you have the audacity to stroll into our training field, 40 minutes late - slurring your words - are you still fucking drunk?”

“No, captain, just hungover,” he sounds  _ so defeated, _ and Enjolras couldn’t help but feel a little sympathy. But his anger overpowers his sympathy by tenfold, as he continues his shouts. He’s glad that the practice is behind closed doors, because this is going to be bad, he knows.

“What the fuck were you doing last night?” and as he can sense Grantaire trying to formulate a response, “And don’t fucking answer the question - because there is no excuse you’re going to give me. You were out there, getting fucking  _ wasted  _ with strangers, dancing on the tables like a fucking moron, being a laughing stock to the world! Did you check your phone this morning? Your drunken ass plastered  _ everywhere  _ on the internet! Can’t you go two days, just  _ two more fucking days _ of  _ pretending  _ to be a functional human being? Can’t you go two more days without being an embarrassment to our team? Personally, I don’t give a shit, whatever you’re going to do in the vacation - just don’t mess this up! We’ve all been working so damn hard for the Cup - if you want to ruin everything for yourself, so be it! But has it ever occurred to you that what you’re doing bears  _ consequences _ ? Has it ever occurred to you that you’re a  _ public figure _ ? Has it ever occurred to you that this is  _ not just about you _ ? That we count on you? That the country counts on you?”

He is standing right against Grantaire now, his heaving chest almost touching Grantaire’s slouched figure. He senses a figure approaching him from the back, putting a cool palm onto his shoulder, as he tries to catch his breath from his infuriated rant. He feels the blood rush through his head, and the heat of his rage rushing out of his body like a hurricane. “Back off, Combeferre, _ ” _ he seethes, “I’m not done yet. I listened to you, I didn’t approach  _ him _ ,” he makes sure to spit out the word in disdain, “he is asking for this, and I’m giving him it.”

Combeferre must know how mad he is, because he just squeezes his shoulder, and walks back to join the rest of the team. 

“This shouldn’t come as a surprise to you, right? Me acting like an idiot, making a fool out of himself - that’s what you expect of me, isn’t it?” Grantaire bites out the words one by one, acting as if speaking of this hurts him physically. Enjolras hears his teammates grimace from behind.

And if he thought that he couldn’t get angrier, he was wrong. He can actually feel the smoke bursting through his head. His face is scarlet with ferocity, as he continues.

“So  _ that’s  _ what this is about? That stupid fucking interview? If you would’ve stayed  _ rational _ , if you would’ve used your brain, if you would’ve controlled yourself just a little longer, you would’ve seen my response! If you would’ve  _ called me,  _ asked me what the fuck this was about, you would’ve heard me explain it to you! You would’ve known that the bastard Gillenormand twisted my words completely, and I never said that I had low expectations on you. In fact, it’s the completely opposite,” his rage, by this point, is already dying down, slowly replacing himself with utter defeat and disappointment, “I thought too highly of you. I thought you knew better than to believe in everything the internet says. I thought you were better than this.”

“I’m sorry, Enjolras, I really -”

“Do you know who you really owe an apology to? Not me. Not  _ I’m sorry, Enjolras.  _ You should say, I’m sorry,  _ team,  _ because did you fucking see how there were hoards of reporters shoving their recorders towards all of us this morning after breakfast? No, because you were busy  _ sleeping off your hangover _ ! Do you know how Coach Lamarque is having an emergency meeting with the whole staff, trying to figure out a way to solve your shit? No? I’m telling you this right now! You should say, I’m sorry,  _ France,  _ because there were hundreds of children  _ crying  _ last night, thinking that their favourite goalkeeper, their  _ hero, has _ given up on the World Cup. There were hundreds of people messaging me, messaging all of us, asking  _ why.  _ And I don’t have the answer! You do! You should say, I’m sorry,  _ Grantaire,  _ because you’re letting yourself down, most of all. You could do so much better, you could be so much more than this - you have to know how good you are. And you decide to ruin it all? Because you don’t have a sense of rationality or control?”

“Enjolras - I really didn’t -”

“You didn’t what? You didn’t mean to get drunk? Didn’t mean to stagger out of the club, wasted, 7 hours before our last practice here?” he snarls, “I hope the vodka was worth it. Now get out of here.”

“Please -”

“You heard me, Grantaire. You aren’t going to get  _ anything  _ done in this state. Go back to the hotel, sleep this off completely, think about what you’ve done, and we’ll see how it goes. I don’t want to talk to you now.”

Grantaire just ducks his head, sighs miserably, turns his head and walks back out of the stadium.

The whole practice, Enjolras lunges at the balls as if they had personally offended him. He’s grateful for his teammates' sympathetic pats on his shoulder though - those offer just a slight sense of comfort as his mind continues to buzz with anger and confusion.

_ - _

Grantaire leans against his bed as he cries like a child.

_ I thought you were better than this.  _ The words play in this head again and again, like a broken record. For once, Grantaire had done enough to let Enjolras trust in him - and he had to go ruin it all again. Enjolras’ face was so… utterly disappointed. Grantaire can deal with his rage, his insults - but he can’t deal with his disappointment.

Enjolras was right. He should've known better, he really should've. His fucking talent of self-sabotage decided to take over him once again. He should've waited in his room, he should've called up Joly or waited for Bahorel to come back to the room and he should've  _ talked.  _ He should've gone and checked Enjolras’ response, and it would've ended so differently. He's cried over Enjolras before, but this time, the tears were of shame, of regret, of sorrow. 

He opens Twitter - he’s trending, as expected. Him, thrusting his crotch onto equally wasted people. Him, face tinged red with alcohol, hair sticking up with sweat. Him, grinning into the cameras of the paparazzi, obviously unaware just how much shit he got himself in. People commenting,  _ Maybe Enjolras was right when he said this guy is absolutely fucking useless.  _ Strangers messaging him,  _ Why are you doing this, Grantaire? You’re letting us down.  _ Forums trending online, laughing mercilessly at his venture in the pub,  _ so much for France’s revenge. _

Yeah, the night was fun, yeah, he'd reached his goal of forgetting about Enjolras for a few hours. So what? He barely remembers how it was, dancing crazily with strangers whose names he never even bothered to learn, but how his teammates looked as he stepped into the field this morning - that will forever be ingrained into his mind. Bahorel wouldn’t even look him in the eye - he couldn’t be  _ guilty  _ about Grantaire’s shit, could he? Combeferre, always the smart, rational one, just looked at him with sympathy. Surely he knows why Grantaire was out, but nothing can overshadow the disappointment seeping through his eyes.  _ I’ve told you before, Grantaire,  _ he could almost hear,  _ you need to control yourself.  _ And Enjolras, his Apollo - the blue eyes just boring into his, burning with fury as he yelled at Grantaire.  _ He deserved it, and so much more.  _ Yet, just as the fire in his eyes had burnt so brightly, it just turned into an icy glare of resentment in a moment.  _ He’s given up on me completely, finally. I’m not even worth his rage anymore. _

He barely feels anything when Joly barges into the room, silently examining him, giving him water, handing him an Advil. The pain ringing through his head holds no competition to the sickening agony ripping his heart open. 

-

When he hears a few knocks on the door, he assumes it’s Bahorel, coming back from his jog every night. He reluctantly gets out of bed, still sulking in his sorrow, as he sighs, “Haven’t you brought your keyc-  _ You’re not Bahorel.” _

“You’re right, I’m… not.”

Because that’s Enjolras standing in front of him, nine in the evening, dressed in a band tee, sweatpants, hair slicked back into a tiny ponytail. No one should look this good in pyjamas, really, but Grantaire isn’t surprised, because this is Enjolras he’s talking about.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to talk to me after -”

“Trust me, I don’t,”  _ honest as always,  _ Grantaire’s face falls just a little bit before Enjolras continues, “do you want to play tomorrow?”

“You’re asking me?”

“I’m asking you a question, I want an answer. I just had a meeting with Lamarque, and I know you spent the afternoon in the gym, training,” he nodded, voice still strained with anger, “I don’t want you on the field, obviously, but we’ve looked through the public’s opinion, and we’ve weighed all the pros and cons, and came to the conclusion that it might be the best option we have to put you on the starting lineup. So, do you want to play?”

“Enjolras, I just want to say -”

“I’m here to ask you a question, that’s all. I don’t want to hear anything else.”

“Yeah,” he breathed out, shame overcoming him, “Thank you, Enjolras, for giving me a chance.”

“Don’t, it's not me,” he turns back and walks down the corridor. Even his footsteps scream righteousness.

-

Grantaire tries to approach Enjolras whenever they’re together in the tunnel or the dressing room, but Enjolras really can’t spare him more attention. He’s still very much furious about the practice yesterday morning, and he’s only put Grantaire in the starting 11 because, first, his teammates trying to nudge Enjolras multiple times in keeping Grantaire in the lineup ( _ “Give him a chance, Enj.” “He really feels like shit, trust me.” “I know you’re angry, I am too, but-”) _ , second, most fans on the internet begging for the team to keep Grantaire for the sake of the game (“ _ Enjolras and Lamarque, please, he’s so much better than the backup goalie!” “#givegrantaireonemorechance”),  _ and most of all, Lamarque all but subtly mentioning that out of form Grantaire is still a better choice than the backup keeper ( _ “Enjolras, we’re thinking about the results here.”).  _ It’s obvious that Lamarque wants to keep him in the lineup, and is leaving the decision in Enjolras’ hands because he’s such a great, easygoing coach who respects Enjolras so much, and everyone else seems to want Grantaire to play, too. And Enjolras isn’t going to let  _ so many people  _ down because he’s angry. So, he tells Lamarque, he’ll play Grantaire if Grantaire wants to, but he won’t talk to Grantaire, because he doesn’t want to say things he’ll regret.

The game goes a lot smoother than expected, Grantaire playing nowhere near badly, if Enjolras had to be honest. Going off the line when he needs to, flying towards the right directions when free kicks are delivered. It’s one of the more one-sided finals in recent years, winning 3-0 against Italy, Enjolras scoring two goals, one a tap-in as a result from an incredible buildup, credit to Combeferre, and one his personal show as he dribbles across three world-class defenders and blasts the goal into the top corner. As the final whistle blows, his mind is still reeking with  _ so much joy,  _ as teammates huddled together, their eyes all sparkling with pure elation. He had just won the World Cup - a trophy every player in the world dreams to put their hands on. He had led the team to world glory, and he’s so proud, so fucking proud. The deafening cheers of the audience bring Enjolras to his knees as he glances up, French flags of all sizes flowing triumphantly in the wind, people with tears staining their face paints, chants of their names roaring through the air. For a moment, the pure exhilaration has overpowered his anger just this morning, as he yells “Vive la France!” into the microphone given to him with overpowering passion.

When the interviewer asks him about Grantaire, his mind is still buzzing with excitement, but the mention of Grantaire’s name reminds him of what happened just a day before.  _ Think, think, think before you speak,  _ Combeferre’s words ring through his head,  _ shut up if you don’t have anything nice to say _ . He doesn’t want to give any negative comments, he doesn’t want any scandal to overshadow the triumph right now.  _ No comment,  _ he says to everyone asking him.

His self-control has limits, though, when he sees the man in question,  _ bottle of vodka in his hands _ , standing in front of the interviewer, slurring his words, being a fool again. His grin dissolves into a grimace as he stomps towards Grantaire, and he yells. 

After pulling Grantaire away from the interviewers, obviously entertained and snapping pictures already, Enjolras pushes Grantaire into a corner, and shakes his shoulders, slumped forward in intoxication. “What the fuck, Grantaire?” he interrogates, “Is yesterday not enough for you? Did I not say enough?”

“What, Apollo!” his voice is high pitched, as he laughs, “I’m just happy! World Cup winners, us!”

“You drink when you’re sad, you drink when you’re happy - so when  _ don’t  _ you drink? What the fuck? Did no one try to stop you? None of our teammates?”

“Oh, they tried, they sure did - but no one can stop me, y’know?”

“I just - I can’t deal with you, Grantaire. Just, don’t come near me, please.”

Fucking hell, what a way to ruin the day completely. He doesn’t even look back at Grantaire as he fiercely turns back, walking towards the dressing room.

-

“Golden Ball winner of FIFA World Cup 2018 - congratulations, Julien Enjolras for France!”

Enjolras walks towards the President, presenting him with the award, as he takes in the applause and cheers from the crowd, his teammates, and even opponents. His grin is going to break his face, he thinks. He waves at the cameras as he sees himself on the large screens around the stadium - he doubts whether he’s ever been this happy. The never-ending happiness runs through his whole body, as he tries to ingrain the whole atmosphere into his mind. To his left, he sees his teammates, gleaming with pride as they applauded. He nods at them, blows them kisses - God, he’s so, so thankful for this amazing bunch of people who he could always count on. To his right, he sees his opponents, the Italian team, obviously disappointed for their loss, but nonetheless clapping for him. He smiles politely - respect, he thinks, is the most important thing in life, justice and discipline follows close behind, but everything requires respect, fundamentally. As the screen pans through the audience, he sees all kinds of people. He knows his parents are there somewhere - he doesn’t see them often anymore, since they’ve moved to England two years ago for the expansion of their family law firm, but he receives texts and calls often enough to know how proud they are of him. He sees balding men in tears, probably seeing this as a timely revenge of 2006. He sees photos held up by audience members, probably deceased loved ones who didn’t get to see the glory right now. He hopes they are looking down from heaven, throwing a separate celebration above the clouds. He sees young children bouncing in innocent joy, probably their first time seeing anything this big of scale. He takes the trophy from the President’s hands, the metal cool on his warm hands. He lifts the trophy up, as the camera pans around him, and the crowd roars with celebration. Then he sees a figure stagger up the stage, grin firmly in place.

Ah, he  _ almost  _ forgot about that.

He  _ knows  _ it’s Grantaire’s life, Grantaire’s choice that he decides to come to the ceremony drunk, and he doesn’t really have any right to comment on it. He shouldn’t care. Yet, he can’t help but be absolutely furious, because he’s a public figure - he should be a good role model to the kids, he should be a responsible member of the team, he should keep his act together, at least, in front of the world. After the blowout at the practice not even three days ago, he thinks, Grantaire should know to tone down his drinking a bit, at least show respect to the ceremony. He is a representation of the team, not just for himself. So as Grantaire drunkenly spins around with his Golden Glove trophy, shouting  _ “Holy crap! This shit is motherfucking cool!”  _ and stumbles towards Enjolras, pointing finger guns, his face falls  _ so  _ significantly that he’s sure all the cameras are catching it. His blood is boiling as Grantaire tries to lunge at him and tries to give him a bear hug, reeking of alcohol.

“Embarrass yourself all you want out there,” he seethes through his teeth, “but don’t touch me, don’t talk to me when you’re drunk.”

So, he spends the ceremony pointedly ignoring Grantaire’s shouts into the microphone, his sprints through the field, making faces at the camera, or his repeated  _ purrs  _ of “Apollo” as he clambers up to Enjolras every five minutes. He could feel his face growing redder of anger, and darker of dread as every moment passes. He’s trying hard to contain himself, but it isn’t going well at this rate. Bahorel tries to pull Grantaire away, apologetically smiling at Enjolras, “ _ I’m so fucking sorry,”  _ he rolls his eyes,  _ “he’s a mess.”  _ He tries to smile back at Bahorel, but it comes out pained, as he sighs, “Please control him.” Combeferre tries to distract him from Grantaire by leading him into conversations with guests on the field, and Courfeyrac  _ somehow  _ appears out of nowhere and jumps onto him, tackling him onto the floor as they laugh. There are still cameras flashing everywhere as they wait for the presentation for the trophy itself, and Enjolras is trying his best to enjoy himself even though he can’t seem to shake the fact that drunk Grantaire is out there being uncontrollable from his mind.

The team goes up the stairs one by one, receiving the medals from the president, as the National Anthem blasts from the speakers. Enjolras puts his palm onto his chest, heart thumping against the patriotic drums of the anthem as he waits for his turn. As Captain, he’s last in line, waiting for everyone to get their medals before heading upstage, receiving the medal around his neck, then lifting the trophy up with his teammates. He’s rehearsed this moment a million times in his head, ever since he has played football professionally, but nothing could’ve prepared him for this moment. Immense pride soars through his soul as he skips up to the President, shakes his hands once again, accepts his congratulations gracefully, bows his head slightly to receive the gold medal shining under the sunlight. He steps forward, takes a deep breath, and as his teammates huddle around him. He counts down in three, and with the cheers, he lifts his arms as high as possible, trophy in hand. He imagines he resembles the design of the trophy, now, hands stretched out to receive the world in this stirring moment of victory and liberation.  _ This is the most perfect moment in my life,  _ he thinks, that is, until he feels a towering figure tackle him onto the floor  _ onstage _ . 

He glances up from the floor, as the crowd chuckles amusedly amongst the still roaring cheers. He assumes his face must be shaped into a frown already, as he notices his teammates’ grimaces as they try to haul Grantaire back up. Towering near two metres though, it takes four people and two minutes to pull him upright, after Grantaire’s repeated groans of refusal to get off of him. Every time he nears the point of forgetting all about Grantaire’s ridiculousness in the past few days, there’s always  _ something  _ coming up that summons the fire of rage bubbling in his chest. His eyelids flutter shut as he takes a deep breath, trying to keep the anger out of his face as much as possible. He stands up and flashes the crowd with the most genuine smile he could muster up right now.  _ If he wants to play this game, he’ll get it what he wants. _

-

“Good afternoon, everyone - thank you so much, so so much, for being here with us today,” Enjolras starts, “The grin on my face probably tells you how happy I am, but the truth is, it doesn’t even  _ begin  _ to match the degree of my joy right now.” He’s certainly glad he’s practiced his English, having faced many Anglophone reporters ever since he started being hailed a “wonder kid”. His French accent is still evident, but people seem to like it (quite a lot), and he’s getting more and more confident every time he speaks.

“Those who have seen me address a crowd probably knows how much I  _ love  _ talking,” he hears his teammates and some fans in the audience chuckling - referring to his 20-minute speech during the victory march of the Amis after winning the league, with the message of the speech switching from a victorious address to a fiery rant about police brutality halfway through. 

“I’ve been told that people liked listening to me talk, but I’m going to keep it short today. First of all, again, on behalf of the whole team, thank you everyone, for your support, your chants, your presence here today. It is the passion we see from you that fuels us for our ventures - and I believe I speak for every player in the tournament when I say that.”

The crowd roars in cheers with the acknowledgement. Enjolras steals a glance behind him - most of his teammates smiling, Grantaire still swaying, pumping his fists into the air wildly. That’s all it takes for Enjolras to remember what he planned to say ten minutes ago. He looks at Combeferre with a glint in his eyes, and just receives a look in return that clearly says,  _ I’d tell you to stop and think, but that won’t work, so I’m just going to leave you to it. _

“Well, I can see you all dying to leave here and go celebrate, so one last thing to say. I see many of you with the  _ oh-so-great  _ Russian vodka in hand, not that I know how it tastes,” he pauses, “But I’m sure some people do.”

He makes sure his attitude is pointed enough for everyone to know who exactly he is referring to. He could almost feel the air freeze as everyone around him goes tense. “Feel free to go enjoy yourselves tonight, but stay sane and sober if you have anything important to do tomorrow,” he flashes his signature grin, “or you’ll make a fool of yourself, and I don’t want that to happen to any more of you.”

He swears this is the most awkward moment he has seen in football. He doesn’t know why he does it, he knows it’s cruel, he knows it’s unnecessary, but the rage and adrenaline combined in his brain seem to be taking agency in what he’s doing now. “It would be terrible to end my speech like this,” he continues, “so, everyone, WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS! VIVE LA FRANCE!”

The crowd erupts in cheers once again, and he once again raises the trophy and takes a bow.

-

“Ferre, aren’t you going to lecture me about what I said just now?” Enjolras sighs when they’re sitting in their beds later that night. The adrenaline has rushed past, and he is exhausted in every way from everything that has happened in the past few days.

“Well, I don’t think I need to,” Combeferre shrugs, “We’re both beaten, seriously, and you’ll feel bad enough tomorrow. And, though we all love R, we’re pretty mad at him too. So while you were cruel, it was justified in a way.”

-

Combeferre was right, Enjolras does feel really bad about it. The next morning sees all news tabloids slapping Enjolras’ outburst in the ceremony on the front page, and the public arguing about who’s in the wrong. “ _ French Captain Enjolras Slams Teammate’s Conduct In Public”, “Shade During Trophy Presentation Overshadows French Victory”.  _ There are people saying that it’s Enjolras’ rare show of how young he really is, immaturity of a child. There are people saying that it’s Grantaire bringing the trouble upon himself. Almost every post he comes across is a feature of his frown as he made his speech yesterday, and Grantaire’s expression in the back, stricken, pale, tense. 

“Shit,” he looks positively horrified, “how much did I fuck up?”

“As you can see,” Combeferre raises his eyebrows, “your face is slammed all over the internet, but honestly? Nowhere as bad as your interview after the match versus Patron-Minette. You were angry, with reason, and people understand.”

Enjolras shakes his head. He sees a dozen texts from Cosette, telling him to fix this  _ right now  _ and go tweet something in response. “Why does Grantaire look so… sad?”

Combeferre stares at him, eyes flicking between sympathy and disbelief, “You still don’t understand, do you?”

“Understand what?”

“Not my place to say. Anyway,” he pats Enjolras’ shoulder gently, “what you said was mean, but none of us is able to say that you were  _ wrong _ , you know? What’s done is done though, so we just have to deal with the outcome and do better next time, alright?”

It’s times like these that he’s especially grateful for Combeferre. Whenever he does something stupid, Combeferre is there to talk sense into him, to tell him what to do next, to get him to move on instead of sulking about his stupidity for days. He glances at the clock - barely eight in the morning. After the victory, Coach Valjean let the team sleep in before heading back to France, and breakfast isn’t until ten. So he drafts a post, ready to try and calm the comments online, at least for a bit. If he had the chance to go back to the ceremony, he probably would’ve done the same thing, if he were to be honest - he was truly furious at Grantaire back then. He doesn’t regret it, as he still stands firm in his belief that Grantaire should’ve behaved himself instead of drinking into oblivion before one of the most publicized events in world football. However, he still feels a tiny tinge of guilt - for Grantaire looked so very miserable in the pictures he sees. He doesn’t understand why, but Grantaire is still a valuable member of the team, and he doesn’t like it when his friends are sad.

“Should I text Grantaire and apologize?”

“Don’t apologize for things you don’t truly feel bad for, Enjolras, he’ll know. It’s worse to give an insincere apology than to not give an apology at all.”

“How do you know I don’t feel bad?” 

“How long have we been friends for?” Combeferre just chuckles, “Just try and move on from this, you two are good at ignoring things, anyway. Try to be nice in the future, as I’ve told you  _ many, many  _ times, and I’m sure Bahorel will tell Grantaire to try and behave himself in the future when he wakes up too.”

Combeferre is right, he knows. Every time after a particularly bad argument between them, Enjolras and Grantaire just tend to ignore each other for a few days, then pretend as if nothing has happened and go on with their lives, with Grantaire interrupting and mocking Enjolras whenever he gives a passionate speech about the state of the world in front of his friends, which was every get-together. Sometimes, when one of them is  _ obviously  _ the bigger dick in the argument, they’d give the other the Not-Apology, which ranges from something like, “Grantaire, I acknowledge that I should have worded my expressions in a better way”, to Grantaire delivering a sandwich to Enjolras (always his favourite sandwich too, which is very specific. Peanut butter and banana, but every slice of banana has to be covered completely in peanut butter. How Grantaire figured out, he'll never know) in his home. However, this time, he doesn’t know if he should actually apologize - while he  _ knows  _ that both of them were being obnoxious shitheads and his pride won't let him be the first to apologize, he couldn’t help but feel quite irresponsible after this.

“Seriously, Enj, stop pouting. You were a dick, but what he did was equally shitty. Just let it be, be civil, and it’ll be a new start after the summer, alright?”

-

  
  


-

Enjolras calls Bahorel instead.

“How’s Grantaire?” he asks, voice less confident than he is used to. Bahorel is really close with Enjolras, but Bahorel is also Grantaire’s best friend, and he’s probably positively raging at Enjolras right now for what happened.

“Sleeping, as you would expect,” Bahorel laughs, “He woke up a while ago, but went back to sleep after realizing it’s nine. I’ll tell him you called to check on him - he’ll be happy.”

Wait - why? Apart from that, Bahorel doesn’t sound angry at all. “Aren’t you mad at me, Bahorel? Usually you’ll give me the cold shoulder for at least a week after -”

“I  _ should,  _ after all, R didn’t even have the mood to go out and party yesterday night after the ceremony,” he sighs, “but I’m not  _ delusional.  _ He fucked up big time, and I’m just as pissed as you are at him. You could, however, type him an apology if you want, and I've told him the same thing. Anyway, isn’t your flight to Spain this afternoon? Go pack and have fun, everything will be fine between you two by the end of the Summer!”

_ Right, shit,  _ Enjolras realizes after he hangs up that he has to pack for his vacation with Combeferre and Courfeyrac in Ibiza, and in six hours he should be at the airport because Courfeyrac somehow booked the earliest flight they could possibly catch. Usually, after winning the World Cup, the team should go back home together and have a victory march before they part their ways for vacation, but Enjolras (with the ardent agreements of his teammates, even Grantaire) insisted to donate all the money intended for the victory march to various charities around the country, because sharing the victory with those struggling with life every day makes Enjolras much happier than travelling around Paris in an open-roof bus. Also, after years of seeing victory marches on the TV, he knows surely that even if the team wasn’t personally waving in front of them, the fans would still party and celebrate as hard.

He takes out his phone again, screen still stuck on the article from Sky News about their little dispute the day before. As his conscience and pride continue to duel, Enjolras decides that a Not-Apology will do.

**[To: Grantaire]** _I regret losing my cool yesterday. I hope we can put this behind us._

-

So, he urgently goes back to his suitcase and tries to crumple everything into the compartments without any sort of organization, much to Combeferre’s dismay, and heads for breakfast.

Throughout the Summer, the speculations between him and Grantaire don't die down much. Many people were wondering whether Enjolras and Grantaire will be able to get along in the new season, but there were even more rumours of them dating. Enjolras is annoyed (“ _ What the fuck, Courf? Why would they think that?) _ , but his friends seem amused enough (“ _ Hey, you don’t know what’s gonna happen!”). _

He gets a notification.

**[From: Grantaire]** _i don't blame u apollo. I was being stupid as usual. anyway see u after summer or sometime during summer idk_

  
He doesn’t see Grantaire until the first training of the season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just watched the first match of European football in ages, Dortmund v Schalke 04!
> 
> Just a note, I think it's completely unacceptable for a professional footballer to get drunk on the day before a match, not to mention a World Cup final. If I were the team coach / captain, I'd have never let R on the pitch. But I'm the writer and I love him, so... <3
> 
> Football Glossary
> 
> Starting 11 - self-explanatory... there are 11 people in one team during a football game.
> 
> Golden Ball - every world cup, the Golden Ball is given to the best player of the tournament. 2018 was Luka Modric of Croatia if I'm not mistaken.
> 
> Golden Glove - best goalkeeper of every world cup. 2018 was Thibaut Courtois of Belgium I think.
> 
> There aren't many football terminologies in this chapter. I'm fucking exhausted tbh, after revising stupid Fiscal Policy in Economics. Please, leave kudos and comments, they're my JOY! See ya in the next chapter xx
> 
> Even if I don't post actual chapters as exam approaches, should I like, make social media pages / posts for the characters of the fic and post them? like an archive slash interlude? cuz I love making these fake screenshots and pages. (even if no one answers I probably will. who am I kidding?)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis kick off this season's European club football in a match facing Angers amidst excitement and speculation from the public all over the world.
> 
> (Fuck it. I suck at summaries so yeah hi here it is)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, hi. I KNOW I said that I was gonna fuck off and go study after Chapter 3 but here I am... because this chapter was mostly pre-written from before and something really discouraging and sad happened in my city two days ago. (It's Hong Kong, so some of you might know a little about it, and it's very political, quite complicated.) As I've mentioned before, I don't want to go into a 10k word rant on it but if you want to know more about it I'm very open to talking about it, message me through [Tumblr](https://winterscapitan.tumblr.com/ask) and I'll be happy to explain. (I know, it's empty. I don't want any trace of me on AO3 to my irl friends and my irls follow me on my main Tumblr so yeah this is pretty much an empty one and I may make it my writing Tumblr. Just message me on there anyway I wanna meet new friends). Just gonna say simply that it really gave me a shock, not the good kind, and I was feeling quite down (which is rare, since I'm usually a pretty happy person) + couldn't focus so I went ahead and finished the chapter. After this though, I'll really probably be gone till late June OR have 1 update before that. Depends on how it goes. 
> 
> As always, all mistakes are mine. My grammar is pretty shit.

Enjolras doesn’t like looking at himself in the mirror usually, but this is the first match of the league, and he really loves the design of the new home kit. The classic red of the club, also Enjolras’ favourite colour, with gold strikes shooting through the jersey like lightning bolts. This year marks a century since the Amis have been formed, hence a special, golden badge on the right sleeve on the jersey, and Enjolras glances at it with admiration and affection. His family has always been supporters of the club - holders of seasonal tickets, purchasers of the jerseys every season. Even way before Enjolras got into playing football, his father would have him sit in his lap, watching live matches from the stands. He marvels at how fortunate he is, with the chance to lead the team to victory, with the chance to defend the honour of his favourite team. 

“Busy admiring your angelic face in the mirror? Not expected, but very much justified,” he hears a deep voice from behind, and the owner of the voice was most definitely smirking. Enjolras jerks his eyes open from his thoughts, face puffing up with mild annoyance as he rolls his eyes at the owner of the voice. 

“Shut up, Grantaire, shouldn’t you be warming up with the others?” 

Enjolras knows that he has promised Combeferre and Courfeyrac to be nice towards Grantaire multiple times, but occasional bickers and snaps that mean no particular harm should be fine - in fact, if he stops rolling his eyes or snapping at Grantaire altogether, it would just seem…  _ peculiar.  _ He shivers at the thought of that -  _ “Grantaire!  _ What are you doing? Stop it! Stop messing with my hair,” he frowns, expression mirroring a kid as he tries to slap Grantaire’s hand from his curls, already flying in all directions.

“Don’t worry, Apollo,” Grantaire laughs, eyes crinkling, “I’m just fixing your bun - it looks a mess! Was Ferre tying up your hair while talking to Ep -  _ Oh.” _

Grantaire was doubling over in laughter now, “Oh my God, Ferre had a date with Eponine today. You tied your hair yourself - that explains!”

Enjolras slumps onto the bench, staring up at Grantaire, mustering up the angriest face he could make. He’s  _ good  _ at being angry and making angry faces, but even he himself finds this just a little amusing. His face was turning red (from embarrassment or annoyance?), his nose was scrunched up and he had a major pout on his face as Grantaire seems to laugh harder seeing his expression. Truth was, since Combeferre had a “not-date” with Eponine today, and Enjolras  _ really  _ didn’t want to interrupt them (maybe Combeferre would finally grow some balls and actually make things official. He loves Combeferre, but he’s a coward when it comes to this), he had to figure out his hair himself. While his flowing golden curls were his trademark, also subject to millions of young people drooling over videos, he has absolutely no idea how it should be dealt with. Even if he tries a ponytail, it ends up looking asymmetrical and absolutely horrendous. So, before every match, he meets up with Combeferre at his place and Combeferre would tie up his hair into a bun, then they’d head off to the stadium together. This afternoon, he spent half an hour sitting in front of the mirror fumbling with his hair, sighing at his reflection where his curls resemble a lion’s mane more than a man’s hair. Countless attempts of pulling his hair into a presentable bun ended up with figures that resembled the withering grass in autumn. He had already spent so much time in front of the mirror that he was running late to the warm-up (disclaimer: Enjolras’ warm-up is an hour earlier than the regular one), so he ended up with a semi-presentable bun, his best work in the 30 minutes and rushed out of his house. 

“I already spent so much time trying to get the hang of this,” he mutters, feigning bitterness.

“Don’t worry, you still look adorable,” Grantaire pokes his cheeks, turning them two shades redder, “I’ll fix it for you.” 

Enjolras turns his head as Grantaire gestures him to, and he sits there obediently as he feels Grantaire’s huge hands through his hair. A strange, pleasant sensation shoots through him. He tries to fight off that by squirming his body, but Grantaire slaps his shoulders, telling him off for moving. Reluctantly, Enjolras obliges, resorting to sitting there quietly as Grantaire continues to tie up his hair.

“You know, I think I like it better when you keep your mouth shut,” Grantaire teases.

Enjolras scowls, imitating Grantaire with incoherent whines. “Tease me all you want, this is the only chance you’ll get,” he says under his breath, but Grantaire catches it and laughs genuinely. His laugh is very infectious, Enjolras decides, he likes it.

“All done,” Grantaire taps his shoulders gently, prompting Enjolras to take a look. He faces the mirror and he feels his hair - it’s not just tied in a bun. The top of his head is arranged into two tidy braids, and Enjolras pats his hair in awe. 

“Holy shit Grantaire, how did you do that?” he gapes, eyes twinkling in wonder, “it looks so cool!”

“I used to do that for my sister,” he smiles, “Can’t believe this is what it takes to get your praise.” His tone was playful, but Enjolras couldn’t help but sense some sadness in his voice. 

“That’s not true,” he starts, but by this time, the other teammates were starting to file in from the field, having finished their warm-up, looking across him and Grantaire in amused expressions he couldn’t figure out the reason for. 

“What?” he asks, confused, but Grantaire is weirdly quiet. 

“Nothing,” Combeferre speaks up, “it’s time for you to brief us on the tactics today, right?”

“Right,” Enjolras grins, and steps up front. Apart from playing on the field, one of his favourite things to do is planning the strategies against each opponent and firing up the atmosphere of the team before every match. When he first started planning the strategies, it was out of interest. He wasn't sure whether to actually say them out loud to the team, mostly because he knows that this is typically a coach’s work and he didn't want to take over Valjean’s work. After all, Valjean is a great coach and a kind man, and Enjolras respects him with his whole heart. However, Valjean noticed his interest in strategic planning early on and gave him the agency to plan a brief strategy before every match as long as Enjolras confirmed it with him. He let Enjolras brief the team before every match, knowing well how infectious and encouraging Enjolras' words are. Now, oftentimes, he spends hours the night before with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, trying to figure out the best way to play and to win. He grabs the whiteboard, where his diagrams have already been scribbled from the morning, and the team huddled around him.

“So, Angers - they were in decent form last season, 5th in the league, they’re going to play 4-4-2 probably, since they lost Mabeuf this year. We play 4-3-3 as usual which will trump them, since we’ve got an extra man in front. Our defence should have no problem dealing with their two forwards, we just have to be careful not to let them go unmarked. They are clinical but uncreative.”

He looks across the team, who were listening intently. Combeferre smiles at him encouragingly, indicating his approval.

“They will expect me as centre striker to take possession of the ball because that’s what we usually do, and Ferre and Marius to follow my lead. But their left-back, frankly, is the weakest link. He’s slow, declining and quite unfocused so we could actually start attacking from that side which’ll strike them unprepared. Marius, you’ll be on that side,” he nods at Marius, “When you take the ball from the defence or the midfield, just let your skills fly, speed past their left-back. If you can approach the goal, go for it; if you can’t, Ferre and I will be there so you can pass it to either one of us.”

Marius nods furiously, “Yes, okay, I’ll do my best! I won’t let you down!” 

“Well,” Enjolras continues, “First match of the season, let’s go out there and show them what we’ve got! We’ll give them something to be afraid of! We can do this!” he pumps his fists in the air as his teammates follow in chant. He grins wide - he adores it when he sees his team all fired up and ready for a match. He believes truly that with passion, there’s nothing that Les Amis can’t do.

He couldn’t explain it if he wanted to, but Enjolras’ gaze ended upon Grantaire eventually. He was also smiling wide in chant, not teasing for once, but he raises his eyebrows in challenge and surprise as their eyes meet.  _ So. You used my suggestion?  _ Enjolras reads from his eyes.

_ That is simply what Ferre, Courf and I arrived at last night,  _ he scowls in response.  _ Nothing to do with you - stop being so smug.  _

Who is he kidding? It has everything to do with Grantaire. Courfeyrac, Combeferre and him concluded last night to follow the typical 4-3-3 formation with responsibility falling mostly on Enjolras. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t do it. Enjolras has been known as an elite striker ever since he debuted, all-rounded and more than capable of fulfilling his role. He has proven that time after time, and that would most probably work in this match also. However, as he texted Grantaire that night, ready for his weekly tactical debate when Grantaire threw out the argument that the team should focus their attack on the left back, which would make the game easier to play. He stared at the message for a whole 20 minutes, then forwarded it to Combeferre and Courfeyrac as they headed home, and they quickly voiced out their agreements. Enjolras has to admit, sometimes,  _ a lot of times,  _ Grantaire’s opinions and suggestions are so incredibly insightful.

As the team continues their last-minute preparations for the match, Valjean pulls Enjolras to a corner to talk to him privately. “Coach Valjean,” Enjolras asks, “Is there something wrong? I’m sorry if I-”

“No, no, Enjolras,” Valjean laughed, “I thought you were more confident than that! I just wanted to say, though, I didn’t expect you to see this perspective in your tactical plan. I would’ve thought you’d just throw out the typical 4-3-3, which also works, but-”

Enjolras blushes, because he  _ didn’t  _ see that.

“It’s good that you’re putting a little less responsibility on yourself on the field,” Valjean continues, “You’re the best player in the world, I believe so, but now you’ve got more than just performing on your shoulders. You’re growing up quick.”

“I’ll try my best,” Enjolras says quietly, because he  _ will  _ try.

“Now go, let’s set the lion free on the field. Nice hair, by the way.”

Enjolras blushes even harder and turns his head, only seeing Grantaire winking cheekily at him, obviously having heard the whole conversation. He glowers at Grantaire, muttering, “Has anyone told you that eavesdropping is a horrible thing to do?”

“I just happened to be here, it wasn’t as if I’m  _ deliberately  _ listening to what you were saying,” Grantaire teases again, “glad to know that my braids are subject of praise.”

“Stop boasting, they look ridiculous,” Enjolras scowls, but his fond touches of his hair speaks otherwise, “now go, it’s time for the match, focus!”

Grantaire doesn’t even bother to suppress his grin.

-

“ _ Here we have the long-awaited first match of Ligue 1, between Paris Les Amis and Angers, with more than 70000 people attending the match in Les Amis’ homeground, filling up the stadium. This is Amis star Julien Enjolras’ first match as captain, and the world has its eyes on him, with high hopes for the 23-year-old. Les Amis are the obvious favourites of this match, but Angers is not a team to be underestimated.” _

The match starts just like how they envisioned it to be - Angers playing in a classic 4-4-2 formation, trying to wait for Les Amis to lose focus so one of their players goes unmarked. However, Les Amis are following their plan well, with Bahorel leading the defence as the two forwards from Angers fail to break through the defence line, Grantaire mostly standing idle in the goal, occasionally catching pathetic attempts from far easily. Angers are playing decent, but nothing the Amis’ defence can’t handle. On the attacking side, Marius has his sparks of excellence against their left-back, but is often not confident enough to convert the efforts into goals. A few attempts from Enjolras and Combeferre have ended up slightly wide or hitting the post, but the game is 0-0 at half time.

“We’re actually doing well, especially the defence, good job,” Enjolras gathers the team in the tunnel as the players were resting, “So let’s continue that. Marius, you’re doing amazing, but you need to be more confident. You can do this, we know how good you are. Just go out there and play like you do in practice. Their defence is starting to lose stamina, so we’ll have to continue to press, probably even harder. We need to get a convincing win in this match!” he hollers out the last part, not harshly, but encouragingly. They form a circle, fist-bump each other and sprint back out on the field energetically, wrapped in the fans’ cheers.

The second half proves the team’s extensive training in stamina to be useful. While the Angers players are starting to slow down by the 60-minute mark, the Amis are still going strong. As their attempts for goals grow more frequent, the fans are getting more excited.

_ “We’ve got Louis Bahorel’s long pass right to newcomer Marius Pontmercy on the wing - he’s a new player promoted straight from the Academy. The 19-year-old started training with the first team after the World Cup and - oh! His skills are fabulous! He gives a precise pass to Adrien Combeferre down on the other side, but it is unlikely for him to make a run for goal. It’s on Combeferre now - he crosses into a box, Enjolras is there, heads the ball for goal - AND IT’S IN! What a powerful header by none other than the Captain himself!” _

Enjolras runs towards the audience, yelling in excitement and passion, palm hitting the Amis badge on his left chest repeatedly. A figure bear hugs him from behind, who he recognizes as Combeferre, and his other teammates run towards him, screaming in joy. First goal and assist of the season, coming from the deadly duo of Europe. Enjolras gives Marius a high five, acknowledging his role in the build-up. Marius flushes red furiously, grinning at Enjolras. Enjolras laughs - Marius is sometimes quite irritating, and seems to be confused like a puppy all the time, but he’s quick to learn, hardworking and talented. He fits in the team perfectly and Enjolras is more than happy, in fact, to have him as a new addition to the team. 

With confidence soaring after the first goal, the team plays even harder than before. Powered by the fans’ ceaseless chants and singing, the team tries and tries to make more attempts for goal, leaving Angers’ defence fumbling around frantically. Rarely do the opposing players get near Grantaire, so he just has to dive for a few easy shots every now and then. Before the match ends, Enjolras manages another goal, this time a direct interception after a silly mistake from the centre-back of Angers, then slotting the ball into the bottom corner calmly. A brace in the opening match is more than what Enjolras has hoped for, kicking off this season with a bang.

-

-

“You seriously need to stop drooling over these pictures of Enjolras,” Joly sighs.

Currently, Joly, Bahorel and Grantaire are sitting on the floor of Grantaire’s living room. The day after every match, they get together for a weekly indulgence of junk-ish food and a few beers (Grantaire has set a limit of two beers per night for himself). While they are professional footballers on a strict diet, just to keep their stamina (and attractive physique. Grantaire wouldn’t  _ actively  _ say it, but he does love his six-pack, so do his instagram followers), they also like to have cheat days every once in a while. Joly’s presence as the team medic also makes sure they don’t have  _ too  _ much or things they’re not supposed to have. 

“I’m not  _ drooling _ ,” Grantaire rebuts. While his undying adoration towards Enjolras isn’t even a secret to basically every staff member of the club, minus Enjolras himself, he still gets defensive like a high schooler whenever someone calls him out on his borderline stalking, “I’m just adoring  _ my  _ gorgeous hair art. Everyone loves it! Seriously, when I retire, I could probably go ahead and become a hairstylist.” 

This does nothing to convince his friends. “Yeah, sure. Tell me that you aren’t able to recite his post-match interview word by word, and I’ll give you that.”

Bahorel speaks up, more serious than Joly. “This is ridiculously amusing but seriously, Grantaire, you’ve got to be careful. I love you both, but if he breaks your heart, I’m afraid I’d have to go punch him, and I don’t want that.”

“I know, I know,” Grantaire reassures, seeing both Bahorel and Joly looking worried now, “I’ve survived four years pining from afar and his insults - hell, I fucking fed on his scowls. Cue this season, and he’s been nothing but nice to me these past weeks. I think we might be able to finally be friends. You can’t talk me out of loving him, so just let me be, alright? I’m a big boy, I’ll take care of myself.”

He knows that Enjolras will probably never like him back, but he has already come to terms with that. After all, who is he to deserve love from this God of a human? There have been men and women wherever Grantaire goes hitting on him, models, actors, other athletes, but frankly Grantaire is not interested in anyone apart from Enjolras. He feeds on every scrap of attention from Enjolras, positive or negative, and he is aware that it’s unhealthy and that his friends are simply looking out for him. However, it’s his life, and he’s happier getting shot down by Enjolras’ insults than living in a world without Enjolras near him.

“How was it though, braiding your Apollo’s hair?” Bahorel’s tone was back to teasing now, and Grantaire can’t believe he’s happy about it.

“I still can’t believe it,” Grantaire sighs fondly, “amazing. It was fucking amazing. And he looked so adorable -”

He hates how pathetic he gets, but whenever he talks about Enjolras to someone else, he becomes all shy and giggly like a schoolgirl. He guesses he has to be grateful though, he manages just well enough to keep his sarcasm when he’s interacting with Enjolras in person.

“Alright, that’s enough, you’re starting to get disgusting again!” Joly throws a cushion towards him. “We don’t need to hear how  _ bloody angelic  _ Enjolras is! Last time you told me how piercing his eyes were, I couldn’t look him straight in the eye the next practice!”

“Well, we went through the same thing before you and Bossuet started dating Chetta!” Bahorel laughs. Bossuet used to be in the youth teams, but he got into so many injuries that he realized that football really wasn’t the life path for him. But his extended time spent in the medical rooms brought him and Joly closer, and he’s now studying for a degree in sports science in university, hopefully joining Joly in the medical team of Les Amis when he graduates. Musichetta, on the other hand, is a fairly new member of the club, joining the team a year ago as the new nutritionist. Working closely with Joly as they lectured the players about their health, Joly quickly fell hard for Musichetta’s wit and dedication to her job. Bossuet shared his affections after they were introduced, and Grantaire doesn’t understand how Joly can be so lucky, but now the three of them are happily in love and Grantaire is more than happy for his friend.

“Fine, I’ll give that to you, but hey! At least I’m not abandoning you two for them!” Joly says, unable to contain his smile. Sometimes Grantaire would imagine his life, just as happy as Joly, living life to the fullest and happiest both in career-wise and relationship-wise. But he knows things like these don’t happen to him, and he’s probably used up his luck in his soaring football career and the family he found in Les Amis. 

Later at night, after Joly and Bossuet have returned home, Grantaire spends two more hours online watching videos of Enjolras’ two goals and compiled highlights of his face and his post-match interviews, composed and collected like he always is, yet happiness evident in his voice. He’s so beautiful when he’s happy (but even more so when his passionate anger scorns Grantaire all over. Or maybe that’s just because Enjolras is so much more beautiful in person. No camera could do him justice.).

( _ “Enjolras, you’ve bagged both the goals today - are you satisfied with your performance? _

_ “Yes, I am, of course there’s room to improve, but I’m happy with today’s performance. It’s the start of the season, and there’s much time for our team to reflect and do even better.” _

_ “What about your teammates? How do you feel about them?” _

_ “Always thankful for all my teammates. They’ve all been supportive, cooperative and hardworking. I love playing with them.” _

_ “You’ve been vocal about your disdain towards your goalkeeper before -” _

_ “Look, I’ll have to interrupt you here. Do you really need me to comment on his performance? You’ve got eyes, the audience has got eyes. Give me an adjective to describe him today.” _

_ “Reliable?” _

_ “There you have it. Thanks, bye.”) _

-

“Look at you, you cute little braided puppy!” Courfeyrac lunges himself onto Enjolras, reading out the thousands of obsessive comments over Enjolras after the match. They weren’t unfamiliar to Enjolras and his friends - after every match, there tends to be photos from every angle of Enjolras posted online and screenshots of videos, no matter professionally taken or not, with thousands of his fans screaming incoherently in the comments. (He still doesn’t understand  _ why  _ his fans scream “DADDY” in the comments so frequently, to both Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s amusements) This time round, though, there seems to be an especially  _ huge  _ amount of media circulating the internet. Video edits and photosets of his “adorable hair and adorable face” plastered all over every social media, much to Enjolras’ annoyance.

“I’m  _ not  _ a cute little braided puppy!” Enjolras tries to push Courfeyrac’s torso away from him, “Get away, Courfeyrac! How long has it been since you’ve gone to the gym? You’re so heavy!”

“Are you saying that I’m  _ fat?”  _ Courfeyrac feigns injury, “Don’t expect me to stop reading these comments, you traitor!  _ Oh my God, his eyes are shining under the sunlight and his cheeks are flushed red, and his braids are so damn cute. I need to throw myself on him right now -  _ oh my God, you’re headlining even the pages not related to football! _ ” _

“Courf, stop it!” Enjolras gumbles as he buries his head into his palms, “I don’t understand why everyone is focusing on how I look. For fuck’s sake, why aren’t they focusing their discussions on our performance? We’re opening the European football season and the headlines are about my  _ fucking hair _ !” he pouts indignantly. While the praises are flattering, and Enjolras  _ really  _ enjoys seeing fanpages’ edits of him or amazing art from all over the world, listening to Courfeyrac read out all those comments is still embarrassing as hell. He’d much rather the public to spend more effort talking about their tactical planning or their performance on the actual pitch. 

“Well, I think you’re more of an adorable little kitten than a puppy,” Combeferre chirps in, “Appears all distant and fierce to strangers but is actually an absolute sweetheart,” he pokes Enjolras’ reddening cheeks teasingly.

“Oh my God, Ferre, not you too,” Enjolras groans, “I’m literally allergic to kittens. Also, this is all your fault, if you didn’t abandon me for Eponine, I wouldn’t have had to resort to Grantaire, and I wouldn’t have had to endure all of this!”

Combeferre blushes slightly at the mention of Eponine, but he doesn’t faze much. “You were the one who told me to go in the first place,” he laughs, “and you loved the braids, stop whining.”

“I didn’t  _ love  _ them,” Enjolras says defensively, “They were neat and convenient, but I didn’t look any different than normal.”

“I mean, if you want, I could reschedule my lunch with Ep and help you deal with your hair next week, since you  _ hated _ your braids so much.”

“No, don’t,” Enjolras quickly interrupts.  _ He just doesn’t want Combeferre to give up on a chance going on a date. That’s all. _ As casually as he could muster, he adds, “I  _ guess  _ I’ll just tell Grantaire not to do any crazy stuff with my hair.”

-

Fifteen minutes before warm up the next week, Enjolras shows up in the training room as Grantaire ties up his boots, and he throws his favourite red hair tie to him.

“Unfortunately, Ferre is on another date this week, and probably every week from now. You’re the next best option I can think of,” he makes sure he spits the words out begrudgingly enough to make himself seem less ridiculous. 23 years old, still asking for a… friend? To help him tie up his own hair.

“At your service,” Grantaire bows mockingly, trying to bite back a smile but failing, “You know, I really should teach you how to tie up your hair some time. It’s not that hard.”

Of course, Grantaire is laughing at him - he expected this before coming to Grantaire. But contrary to what he claims, he did like the braids very much. Also, though, Grantaire’s smile looks way too genuine to be mocking. There’s something unreadable twinkling in his eyes, and Enjolras’ insides go way warmer than they should. He really shouldn’t have drunk the cup of hot tea before he came out.

“Just get on with it,” he mutters, turning away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually don't know if I like this chapter THAT MUCH because it's not one of those plot points where I just have it right from the planning process. The plot points just came to me spontaneously and it's kind of a build-up for their friendship + them being cute. 
> 
> Football Glossary!
> 
> 4-4-2: a tactic in football with 4 defenders, 4 midfielders and 2 forwards. (ofc 1 goalie) Kind of the "classic" kind of tactic I'd say?
> 
> 4-3-3: another tactic... you get the drill. I actually like 4-3-3 a lot.
> 
> Cross: kind of a long-range pass from the wide area towards the center of the box near the goal they're trying to score on.
> 
> Not much football technicalities are covered, to my surprise. As always, kudos and comments are more than welcome and they make my life so much better <3
> 
> A question. Should I add Chapter titles?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah, sure,” Enjolras shrugs nonchalantly, “I have nothing better to do anyway. I’ll wait for you at the front door? I assume you’d need a shower.”
> 
> What the fuck. So he’s going to lunch with Enjolras.
> 
> “Are you sure you have nothing to do than going out for lunch with me?” he asks, genuinely confused. Enjolras would probably rather do anything than voluntarily hang out with him. 
> 
> “What? You’re the one who invited me!” Enjolras frowns, and fuck, please reverse the time, Grantaire wants desperately for Enjolras to smile at him right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look - I know, I said I wasn't gonna update BLAH BLAH BLAH and yeah I promise I'm revising but. It's barricade day... so I can't NOT post. Happy Barricade day to everyone <3 
> 
> This is like, lowkey a plot filler. I just wanted to write them being civil and kinda cuuuteee??? yeah.
> 
> Next update will be sometime around 28 June I think.
> 
> Not beta-read, all mistakes are mine

Grantaire walks into the dressing room, humming “Here Comes the Sun” loudly and he is very sure that he’s the only one left in the dressing room. Valjean pulled him aside to talk to him right after the practice - he was very afraid that it was going to be an intervention of his performance. Did he unconsciously behave like a jerk (again)? For the whole season, he has arrived at every practice early, he has played every match with nothing but focus, hell, he has even refrained from teasing Enjolras during practice. Not that he has completely succeeded, his half-genuine half-mocking praises and flirtations still slip out every now and then, but they’ve been toned down significantly and Enjolras doesn’t even seem _that_ annoyed anymore, just slightly irritated, which gives him the righteous slash avenging look - so glorious, so gorgeous. He kept thinking and thinking what shit he’s pulled this time and how he could get himself out of it - if he somehow gets his captaincy stripped away, he really wouldn’t know what to do. After all the disaster that has happened before the vacation, it was a miracle, really, that Valjean still trusted him enough for him to have a place as one of the captains. While he has always been careful not to believe in anything (not that he’s successful especially after meeting Enjolras), most importantly, himself since he left his gene providers (he’s also careful not to call them his ‘parents’), he holds the trust he has received from his coach and teammates dear to his heart. Now, whenever he feels inferior or undeserving, it’s reminding himself of the love and respect he’s earned for himself that stops him from spiraling into a pool of misery.

Turns out, though, Valjean just wanted to tell Grantaire how happy he was for Grantaire’s “responsible and admirable” behaviour since the press conference. “You’ve been nothing short of amazing this season,” he says, “I know you may have doubts about me choosing you, but you’ve proved my decision right completely.”

Well, that made his day completely, possibly even more than how Enjolras gave him the finger with a scowl on his face when he distracted Enjolras’ penalty practice by screaming at the sky right before he landed the kick, causing the ball to fly straight towards the stands. Probably amused by the teammates’ booming laughter, the scowl looked more like a child’s pathetic attempt of pretending to make a lion growl, which was honestly adorable. 

He was wrong, though, when he assumed that no one else stayed for half an hour after practice, because from the showers walks out Enjolras, only in a towel, water still dripping from his golden curls. Water droplets slide from his wide shoulders down his torso, where his six pack was somehow _even more_ toned than last season, which Grantaire deemed impossible. _Holy shit, he got so tanned in the Summer._ Enjolras freezes in his tracks, which makes Grantaire’s insides do a flip or two - holy fuck. He looks so fucking good, Grantaire swears he’s pretty much dead inside.

Enjolras looks positively horrified in contrast. His face was as red as the jersey hanging on his arms, and his mouth was shaped like an “O”. “Oh my God, Grantaire! Shit, I thought I was the only one here. I’m so, so sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Grantaire winks playfully, then internally cringes at the way Enjolras goes ten times redder and scurries back into the shower. It isn’t like he especially _liked_ making Enjolras embarrassed, especially now that they’ve proven to be capable of civil exchange, Grantaire would much prefer making Enjorlas smile rather than scurry away, but it’s natural for him, and making Enjolras annoyed or embarrassed seems to be one of the only things he’s good at.

Three minutes later, Enjolras walks out, dressed in a burgundy tight-fit t-shirt and black jeans. Grantaire takes a deep breath and attempts casualness, “Why did you stay so long? You usually leave with Ferre, don’t you?”

“Oh,” Enjolras shrugs and smiles, one that scrunches up his nose, _what a wonderful sight to behold._ “He’s got a family lunch today, and I’ve got nothing to do, so I figured that I’d stay behind and do some work on my arms,” he flexes his biceps slightly, smiling so widely but shyly and _he’s so fucking cute. God, doesn’t he know what he does to Grantaire?_

“Um,” _way to go, Grantaire, very coherent, “_ Since you've got nothing to do, why don't we go grab lunch together? Of course, maybe you don’t want to go out with me, you don't have to feel obligated to say yes, 100%, I'm not forcing you -”

He actually doesn't know what got into him that made him shameless enough to approach Enjolras for lunch and he enters a mode of panic inside. He knows he is going to get rejected most likely, after all, who is he to ask Enjolras out for a lunch? _Oh God, what if he thinks I'm asking him out on a date - not that I don't want to, but he'd be so disgusted and he’ll never talk to me ever again._ If he says no, it'd be a major embarrassment, but if he says yes, it’d be even worse. _Why are you even considering this, Grantaire? He’d never say yes._ If, for some reason, some spirit occupies Enjolras’ soul and makes him say yes though, Grantaire would have to spend at least one more hour trying to contain himself in front of Enjolras while he’s just being unapologetically gorgeous and unconsciously turning Grantaire on with _anything_ he does. Grantaire probably won’t be able to control himself and he really doesn’t want to suddenly blurt out his love for Enjolras while they’re in the middle of their Spaghetti Carbonara.

“Consent is sexy?” Enjolras laughs now, and it’s so beautiful, Grantaire would like to make Enjolras laugh again and again. “Good to see that you listen to my speeches, after all.”

“Of course I listen to you - or else how am I gonna argue with you?” he chokes out, hoping that Enjolras doesn’t notice the strain in his laugh. Judging by the way Enjolras’ own smile doesn’t falter as he packs up his shin pads, he probably doesn’t realise, which is good. He continues, “So - are you coming? I know a café nearby with the greatest pasta.”

He _really_ doesn’t know why he hasn’t changed the conversation topic yet or just ran out of the dressing room. By now, he’s proud that his brain doesn’t go all mushy anymore when Enjolras flashes his million-dollar smile at him (literally. Enjolras signed a contract with the biggest toothpaste company in Europe, it’s pretty much approaching a million - he had wanted to turn it down because he ‘didn’t understand why just a smile of his can be worth a million but there are countless people out there struggling to pay for lunch. Grantaire thinks he’s stupid, becuase look, a _million_ just to flash a smile in front of a camera. Who would ever even think to refuse? And if Grantaire were to be honest, his gorgeous smile is worth way more than millions. Eventually, he took the deal, but donated 70% of that to UNICEF for children’s dental care in third-world countries just because of how righteous and how perfect he is), but whenever their conversations go civil for a prolonged period of time, especially now that the topic of conversation sends a bolt of panic through Grantiare’s mind, he really has no agency to logic anymore. Not that he has ever used logic when he converses with Enjolras, he mostly just says whatever Enjolras is against just to see his beautiful face scrunched up into a cute frown, but… yeah. At times like these, he really doesn’t know what to say to Enjolras, mostly because he’s so terrified of wiping that rare smile directed at him. The rational thought would probably be formulating an excuse and getting out of there as quickly as possible, but Enjolras’ staggering presence has Grantaire stuck standing in front of him, relying on his instinct while talking. Which is quite embarrassing for him - while Enjolras is tall, blonde and handsome, Grantaire literally has to look down when he's talking to Enjolras since he's the tallest of the team. Well, to be fair to himself, it's not his fault that Enjolras has such a high-wattage aura that seems to shrink anyone who’s in front of him. 

“Yeah, sure,” Enjolras shrugs nonchalantly, “I have nothing better to do anyway. I’ll wait for you at the front door? I assume you’d need a shower.”

What the fuck. So he’s going to lunch with Enjolras.

“Are you sure you have nothing to do than going out for lunch with _me?_ ” he asks, genuinely confused. Enjolras would probably rather do anything than voluntarily hang out with him. 

“What? You’re the one who invited me!” Enjolras frowns, and _fuck, please reverse the time, Grantaire wants desperately for Enjolras to smile at him right now._

“I'm just - nevermind, I'll be quick,” Grantaire quickly says, then grabs his clean clothes, scurrying into the shower. Signs of fucking up the conversation is already creeping up Grantaire’s brain and he really, really doesn't want this to end in another fight.

As the cold water blasts out of the shower head onto Grantaire’s torso, relieving him from the sweat and fatigue from the practice, all he could think about is Enjolras. He formulates imaginary exchanges between them, trying to prepare himself for the coming lunch (fuck, he know it's just friends hanging out, and _oh my god Enjolras is actually my friend now_ , his brain suggests. But also. His stupid brain keeps screaming _date date date_ so loudly - and there’s no way in hell Enjolras would ever agree on an actual date with a person like him. Grantaire could only imagine in his wildest dreams that this is like a date, but hey, a guy could dream), trying desperately to end each of his imaginings in a friendly note.

So many things could go wrong. Fuck his stupid brain, Grantaire bumps his head onto the wall of the shower in frustration. He should’ve _thought_ about it before suggesting lunch with Enjolras! Would Enjolras hate the coffee they make, dubbing them too bitter? As much as he claims himself as an avid coffee enthusiast, what he drinks _cannot_ be considered as coffee. It’s just sweetened toxins full of sugar and milk that makes Grantaire gag at the thought of it. Would there suddenly be annoying fans clinging onto Enjolras in the restaurant (or maybe him, less likely though), ruining Enjolras’ mood completely? Enjolras loves his fans, but Grantaire knows how much he hates it when he gets interrupted rudely. If that happens, Enjolras would never ever go anywhere with Grantaire again, which would really be a shame. Would Grantaire’s limbs go all uncontrolled when he sees Enjolras being particularly _beautiful_ and knock over the plate in awe, spilling the food onto him? Just thinking about these makes him cringe, and he mutters a silent prayer to God these don’t happen as he makes sure his body smells of applewood from his shower gel rather than reeking of disgusting sweat by sniffing under his arms. Not that Enjolras isn’t familiar with Grantaire while they’re all gross and sweaty - they’re gross and sweaty almost all the time spent together on the field and right after, but _he’s taking Enjolras to lunch,_ and Grantaire needs to be at his best just to be able to convince himself that he qualifies to speak to such a gorgeous work of art.

He’s all fresh (at least he hopes so) as he takes his wide steps towards Enjolras, sitting on the bench near the security post, his elbows perched on his thighs as he absent-mindedly scrolls through his phone. Hearing Grantaire’s footsteps, he turns his head, face lighting up with a smile. It was warm and bright - as if the Sun just shone ten times brighter today - Grantaire will never understand how beautiful Enjolras looks when he smiles genuinely. He should do it more. 

“Hey,” Enjolras grins, “took you long enough. Almost thought you fell in the shower back there and died.”

“Are you… attempting a joke?” Grantaire asks, laughing in his speech. Enjolras never jokes with him. He scowls, he screams, he lectures, everything he says is serious. 

“Am I that unfunny? You laughed,” he frowns, “I joke sometimes, I’m not a robot.”

“I never said you were a robot, Apollo, don’t you know I think you’re a Greek God?” Grantaire retorts amusingly, “so perfectly, stoically logical all the time.”

Judging from Enjolras’ downturned face, that wasn’t the correct thing to say. God, leave it up to Grantaire to fuck everything up in two minutes.

“I’m just joking,” Grantaire attempts, desperate to put his smile back on, “I don’t mean that you’re not caring -”

“It’s fine, Grantaire, I know,” Enjolras interrupts. A smile is definitely there, but it wasn’t the wide, genuine one like before. Grantaire mentally scolds himself for wiping that gorgeous expression off his face. “I’m just - yeah. I know I don’t show my emotions a lot, but… I really hate it when people say that as if I don’t care, because I really do.”

“Trust me, I know just how much, _too much,_ you care about everything,” Grantaire chirps in without thinking. It’s almost his second nature now, to taunt Enjolras’ undying passion for all problems around the world whenever he mentions it. Whenever there are revolutions or political unrest going on around the world, even far across the Pacific somewhere in Asia, Enjolras would spam his social media to raise awareness. Grantaire loves teasing Enjolras about it, because whenever that oh-so-righteous mind of his gets questioned (especially by Grantaire), Enjolras just huffs angrily, creasing his smooth marble forehead with a frown and snarls at Grantaire because _how could you not feel admiration and support for those who have the bravery to fight against authority?_ However, Grantaire panics right after the words come out - for he has already kind of pissed off Enjolras, and while riling him up was fun, it would be torturous for Grantaire’s poor heart to hang out with a pissed off Enjolras alone for lunch. 

But God above seems to have a little mercy on Grantaire, for Enjolras doesn’t seem angry. If anything, he seems amused by it, judging from the tiny, _beautiful_ smile forming on his lips.

“Of course you think it’s too much,” Enjolras laughs brightly, “I think I’ve got just the right amount of passion in me though. Powers me through everything.”

Grantaire turns his head towards the sidewalks because he’s suddenly scarlet thinking about Enjolras’ passion _all over_ and Enjolras probably doesn’t even _realise_ what he just said.

-

He’s never been to this cafe before, close it is to the stadium. In fact, if he thinks about it, he hasn’t dined out in Paris in months. Enjolras is no vegetarian, for he really can’t give up meat - he does avoid beef usually, though, for the sake of the environment, apart from the occasional steaks and burgers. However, with that being said, Enjolras is a passionate advocate of balanced nutrition, especially since he’s an athlete who needs to take care of his body well and be a good role model to children all over the world. He doesn’t enjoy going out for food too much because of all the MSG and gross fat in everything. Growing up, he never really had to cook for himself since his mum cooked homemade meals for him every day, but since moving out after he turned 18, he has learnt how to cook healthy and decent-tasting meals for himself.

“I think you'll like this café,” Grantaire rambles without pause, “I go there a lot. Actually, I probably know all the restaurants around Paris like the back of my hand, but you know, I think you’ll really enjoy this because they’ve got fair-trade ingredients and it isn’t super crowded, so you won’t get like flocks of people bugging you. Also, you love pasta, I know that, so, they’ve got really great - wait, I’ve already said that before, right?” Grantaire pushes the glass door open as he speaks, and waves at the waitress casually. The young waitress gapes at Enjolras, obviously having recognised him, but he is grateful that she hasn’t gone full-on screaming like the time when Enjolras went to the immigration office for Passport renewal and the girl sitting next to him decided to shriek in awe and five seconds later, there were literally _dozens_ of people asking for selfies.

“Yeah, you have,” Enjolras laughs, “but it’s fine. I like hearing you talk.” Wait, that doesn’t sound right, Enjolras frowns, “I mean, I like hearing you talk when you’re not contradicting me. It offers something civil between us that I enjoy. I assume you do too?”

“I do, yeah, I do,” Grantaire replies, voice a little softer than before, as they sit down at the table farthest from the glass windows. There are only a few others in the restaurant, an elderly couple sitting quietly on the other side of the counter, and Enjolras doesn’t think that they’ve seen the two of them coming in; three girls at the table right next to them, stealing glances not-so-subtly. It’s barely 11:30, and Enjolras decides that he likes his experience in this restaurant for now. The morning sun of late Summer shines into the restaurants and he gets to hear the buzzing noises of the city, muffled by the buildings around.

“What do you suggest?” he asks Grantaire.

“Me? You want my suggestion?”

“Why not?” Enjolras asks, confused, “Why do you always question me whenever I say something? I’m just asking you to give me a suggestion on what to eat.” He’s aware that what he said came out a little harsher than he intended to, and Grantaire’s face falls a little when he says that. He decides, now, that he doesn’t like it when this happens. Grantaire’s smile (more of a smirk) is infectious, and he doesn’t like it when it’s wiped off, especially by him. “I’m not mad,” he adds, “I don’t know why I sounded so pissed.”

“Guess you’re just used to snapping at me,” Grantaire teases now, albeit a little sullenly, but his face lights back up as he finds what he’s looking for at the menu. “You hate tomatoes, I know, so what about Chicken Alfredo?”

“Sure,” Enjolras shrugs, “How do you know I hate tomatoes, though?”

“I just do,” Grantaire mutters as he waves for the waitress, “Chicken Alfredo, please, and an Aglio e Olio. A cup of black coffee and one with as much milk and sugar as you could put in,” he smirks at Enjolras as he ends his order.

“It’s only good with milk and sugar!” Enjolras retorts childishly, “it’s disgusting and bitter and _sour_ when it’s black. How do you even stand it?”

“Bitter like my soul,” Grantaire states nonchalantly, “and what you drink isn’t even coffee. To think that you claim yourself as an avid coffee enthusiast?” he makes a face at that.

With that, they enter an argument about whether the Enjolrasian order is actual coffee, with Enjolras’ argument being “ _It literally has coffee powder in it - how isn’t it coffee?”_ and Grantaire’s being “ _If you don’t like the actual flavour of coffee and add this appalling amount of sugar and milk to ruin it then WHY are you calling it coffee?”_ . When their food arrives 15 minutes later, their arguments have already shifted to the living state of coffee bean farmers and to right now, how refugees should be treated in France. Stuffing his pasta and chicken pieces into his mouth, Enjolras continues to rant about how _terrible_ people’s mindsets towards African immigrants are, _“Literally, look at our national team. Half our players are black! And there are people saying that these immigrants do nothing for our country. Without them we’d have been knocked out in the group stages! We need to educate the public and change their mindsets.”_ and Grantaire just laughs at how ridiculous ( _not ridiculous,_ Grantaire would like to clarify, _he looks adorable with his mouth stuffed with chicken and cream sauce all around his mouth)_ , rebutting his points with his very cynical view of the human mind. 

“...like, we are public figures with this huge platform, and it’s our responsibility - Grantaire, are you even listening?” Enjolras squints at the figure across him, who is nodding occasionally as he rants and raves. Grantaire looks focused on the tiny Moleskine notebook in his hands as he scribbles with a pencil, glancing out at the cityscape here and there. Enjolras stands up and reaches his torso across the table, peeking at what Grantaire is so focused on. He is weirdly jealous of the sketchbook, but that’s because he doesn’t like it when his passionate speeches go ignored, no matter by whom. He’s aware that this sounds pathetically self-absorbed, but he strives for the attention his audience gives him while he speaks, no matter the size. It’s not particularly because of Grantaire, really, he’d feel this jealous no matter who was sitting in front of him right now. 

And Enjolras freezes with his hands perched up on the table uncomfortably, because Grantaire was sketching the view outside, and it’s gorgeous to say the least. It's hard to believe how Grantaire is doing it with merely a pencil - every dent of the building and half-opened windows and the delicate flowers on the balcony are done right, the cars on the road look like they’re actually speeding on. There are no other colours except for the greyscale of the graphite, but Grantaire somehow shades his sketch in a way that Enjolras could see the sunlight hitting on all the correct places. Now, Enjolras is aware that he mostly does not know anything about art. Whenever he gets invited to art events, he just stands there in a suit, not understanding the appeal in the wild strokes and contrasting colours, visibly cringing when a piece of “modern art” which to him, looks more like a creation by a three-year-old gets sold for millions. But what he knows is that Grantaire’s sketch is absolutely beautiful, and he is in awe.

Grantaire snaps his sketchbook shut as his head shots up to find Enjolras gaping silently at his focus, “What are you doing?” he asks, voice a little too shaky for it to sound normal. Enjolras frowns at that - what is he so afraid of? His art is some of the most beautiful Enjolras has seen.

“You’re amazing,” Enjolras blurts out. He is horrified by how much of a fanboy he sounds like. “Your art, I mean. Your art is amazing.”

“Stop pretending,” Grantaire rolls his eyes, “they’re just sketches. They’re nothing.”

“I’m not pretending!” Enjolras snaps now, he is strangely angry at the way Grantaire refuses to believe that Enjolras likes his art. He is strangely angry at the way Grantaire refuses to believe that his own art is actually good, “they’re better than those expensive artworks they auction of Pol-something,” he breaks off, trying to figure out who it was he’s trying to say - the artist whose work looks more like a huge paint tube malfunction which causes them to be squirted everywhere.

“Pollock. You mean Jackson Pollock,” Grantaire laughs, “You think _this_ is better than Pollock?” he shakes his head. “But I’m not surprised that you don’t understand abstract art.”

“I don’t need to understand art that well to know how good your drawings are. Isn’t art subjective anyway? I like it, I don’t think it’s nothing.”

Grantaire is smiling now, it’s not the teasing smirk he usually puts up. It’s one of his rare, shy, genuine ones that appears only once in a blue moon - but it reaches right up to his eyes, and Enjolras couldn’t help but smile back. “Alright, you win,” Grantaire says, “It’s funny to see that you enjoy my art more than you enjoy my football.” And before Enjolras can open his mouth and say, _no, that’s not true_ , Grantaire laughs, “I’m kidding. I know what you’re gonna say.”

“Why are you so good at art?” Enjolras decides to ask after a few seconds of silence.

Grantaire thinks for a moment and opens his mouth. “For the longest time, I wanted to be an artist. I was actually decent at it, too, but my, uh, parents were very against it. I would skip lunch to buy art supplies, the really cheap ones, I was broke, but they’d throw them away. You know how I left them to get into football right?” At Enjolras’ nod, he continues, “God, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, most people just know that I like art but not the whole backstory. Anyway, football was technically my second choice, but I just really couldn’t bring myself to do Art because it just reminded me of those assholes. So I threw myself into football instead, and it worked out well. Guess it was the right decision,” he shrugs.

Enjolras doesn’t really know how to respond to the whole revelation. Yes, he’ll give it, that he’s quite dense when it comes to anything remotely emotional, but he _knows_ he’s bad at giving an appropriate response. He also knows that what Grantaire just told him must be very personal and he really doesn’t want to say something wrong to upset Grantaire or ruin the newfound civility between them. He wouldn’t say “newfound friendship” because he has always considered Grantaire a friend no matter how tense things were, but he is enjoying the comfortable civility shared between the two right now. He also feels immensely undeserving yet flattered for earning enough trust from Grantaire for him to tell Enjolras this, and he would like to keep it that way. So he resorts to asking, “You draw anything apart from scenery?”

It seems to be both the right and the wrong thing to say, because Grantaire visibly sighs in relief when Enjolras decides against prying into his past artistic experiences, but Grantaire also blushes as he fumbles through his sketchbook frantically as if there was something Enjolras is forbidden to see. Eventually, he arrives at a page, showing two figures laughing happily, glancing at something off the sketch. It wasn’t anything hyperrealistic like the scenery Grantaire was just doing, but the sketch appears obvious to Enjolras that Grantaire was capturing Joly and Bahorel. He could almost _hear_ the booming cackle of Bahorel and Joly’s wheeze of a laugh, and he’s in absolute awe.

“I didn’t know you were so good at drawing,” Enjolras stares at Grantaire, still shocked at the sheer talent shown in the quick sketches.

“I suppose there are many things you don’t know about me,” Grantaire grins, then proceeds to smirk at Enjolras pointedly, “your eyes are going to fall out.”

_“Your eyes are going to fall out,_ ” Enjolras repeats in a distorted voice, sticking his tongue out as a pathetic attempt to mock Grantaire. His natural instinct was to roll his eyes, but that would just prompt Grantaire to tease him for his eyes’ future fate of being stuck at the back of his eye sockets, and he isn’t easily baited. He adds, serious now, because a sudden wave of curiosity washes through him, “Do you draw... anyone else?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire mutters with a blush threatening to take over, but quickly closes his sketchbook, stuffing it back into his bag.

He doesn’t like it when his questions don’t get answered completely, but Enjolras knows how to take a hint. It’s obvious that Grantaire doesn’t want to show Enjolras whoever he draws (maybe a crush, or a secret lover? He doesn’t like the thought of that, because having a _secret_ relationship will certainly take a toll on his professionalism and that’s not desirable, so he decides to wipe that thought away), and Enjolras decides not to press further, instead taking Grantaire’s bait on another argument over the militarisation of the police force, which remains heated as they walk out of the restaurant another half an hour later.

-

-

The triptych is currently bundled up on Enjolras’ couch eating his homemade grilled salmon, with Enjolras furiously typing up his extended arguments, frown on his face, on the debate with Grantaire which continued on from their lunch. At seven in the evening, the heated exchange between them on text has gone on for at least four hours, spanning through the course of Combeferre and Courfeyrac arriving, with Enjolras absent-mindedly fumbling with the door handle as he researches, and intense tapping on the phone while _Moonlight_ was playing on the TV. 

“Enj, you’ve been scowling at your phone for hours,” Combeferre sighs, “What are you arguing with R about today?”

“Look, I’m so sorry, but I’m _this close_ , I swear, _this close_ to actually convincing him this time, give me like, five more minutes and I’ll be done.”

Courfeyrac just gives Combeferre a look that screams _Does he think that R would actually get “convinced” by him?,_ and Combeferre shrugs, _let a man dream,_ his look means.

After a particularly indignant huff, which both Combeferre and Courfeyrac identifies correctly as Enjolras hitting the “send” button, he suddenly puts his phone down and looks straight at his two best friends.

“Are you feeling alright?” Combeferre tilts his head in concern, “You look... confused.”

“I am, both alright and confused,” Enjolras nods, “Can I ask you two something?”

Combeferre makes a hum of affirmation and Courfeyrac shrugs, “Go on.”

“Did you two know that Grantaire was good at drawing?”

“Yes. We’ve all known for ages. Haven’t you seen him carry his sketchbook every time the team travels?” Combeferre is collected as he answers, but Enjolras could notice his amused expression. Well, Courfeyrac blatantly has his brows perched up against Enjolras, and he could literally see “Spill The Tea” being spelt out on his forehead.

Enjolras realises that he doesn’t like the fact that he seems to be the last one to know of Grantaire’s talent in art, but that isn’t the point. “I just realised it today while I was having lunch with him, and -”

“Wait,” Courfeyrac screams now, and Enjolras throws him a cushion as a warning for his poor eardrums. “You had lunch with R and you guys didn’t kill each other?”

“Yes, Courf,” Enjolras rolls his eyes, “We are capable of civilized, friendly exchanges.” The looks on Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s faces suggest that no, they really aren’t, but Enjolras decides to let it go for now, “Now let me get to my point, will you?”

“I’m all ears,” Courfeyrac perches up his ears at Enjolras as Enjolras swats him away, and Combeferre nods in agreement.

“Well... I saw his sketches of Joly and Bahorel, so does Grantaire... ever draw anyone else other than those two? They’re his best friends, after all -”

“Come on, Enj,” Combeferre taunts now, even though he’s still perfectly calm in his speech, and Courfeyrac is biting his lips in an attempt to hide a shit-eating grin, “Would you please rephrase your question? Because I don’t really understand -”

Sometimes, he hates his best friends. “Ugh, you _know_ what I mean!”

The two of them just look at Enjolras expectantly.

“Fine, fine,” Enjolras gives in, “Uh, does Grantaire ever draw me? I’m just curious because I want to know if he’d shape me into a devil and I'd be really -”

He looks up from his embarrassment, just to see Courfeyrac actually dying from laughter and Combeferre burying his head into his arms, groaning something intelligible that sounds suspiciously like “ _how the fuck are you so stupid”_ . Enjolras frowns in confusion because _this isn’t funny!_ He’s genuinely asking a question so why are those two laughing so hard?

“I’m not going to entertain your question with an answer,” Combeferre deadpans.

Courfeyrac lands on the floor with a “plump” and Enjolras doesn’t haul him back up.

-

Grantaire is sitting in his bed when his phone lights up with a notification. He grins at the message, all proper punctuations and links to articles. He puts it aside for now, as he strips the page of the scenery outside the restaurant today and sticks it right above his desk. It really was average to him when he sketched it initially, but now it looks so _beautiful,_ as Grantaire remembers how Enjolras’ face was full of admiration when he saw it. He doesn’t dare to hope for more of that, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t replay that gorgeous face again and again in his head.

With that page stripped away, he is faced with a detailed sketch of Enjolras’ face, looking down at his pasta, smiling in satisfaction. 

  
He’s fucked, he’s always been fucked, but he’s even more fucked now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not even any football this chapter... but football stuff will be back next chapter!
> 
> Just wanted to take this time to say - Black Lives Matter. I don't live in America nor I have ever BEEN to America, so I won't comment on the political issues, but what I could say is that racism is never okay. I will probably never understand what it is like to be oppressed like this. As an Asian living in Asia, I don't think I could name 3 times I've actively experienced racism. BUT, I see what's happening and I'm pretty fucking disgusted, to say the least. I cannot believe there are people who do not care.
> 
> Please, spread awareness and donate if you can. It's easy to find petitions and donations online. Let's begin the fight against racism from ourselves. Educate those around you - it works. Racism is taught, not inborn. I myself was raised both racist AND homophobic AND islamophobic, everything discriminatory - but IT COULD BE CHANGED. I was lucky enough to have exposure to the media + open-minded friends who have taught me to love. Now I will do my part and spread awareness to those around me. Your mindset can be changed as you get more information! Everyone is prejudiced in a way unconsciously, I do think, but it depends on our conscience to shut our brain up and view everyone equally.
> 
> If anyone is going to the protests in the USA - stay safe. If you need protest tips, message me - I have the information gathered from one year worth of experience around here.
> 
> Message me on [Tumblr](https://winterscapitan.tumblr.com/ask), I would love to chat with you guys about Les Mis or anything else!
> 
> Kudos and comments keep me going xx


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What's wrong?” Combeferre asks, concerned, “Are you okay? Do I have to call Joly?”
> 
> “No, no,” Marius shakes his head, “I'm okay - just, look! The list for Ballon D’Or nominees is coming out on FIFA'a page in a few minutes!”
> 
> Upon hearing Marius’ words, the dressing room shuffles in excitement as the team urges Marius to display his screen up on the visualiser with the whole team so they all could find out who's nominated this year together. FIFA’s page is there plastered on the large screen of the visualiser, Marius refreshing every five seconds to see when the article will be published.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is long overdue, yeah - exams have ended, I entered one day of despair because of my utter flunking in Chemistry which should've been my best, and then I started working on this other stupid presentation. Then today I went out with my friends, but I still finished the chapter, so yay! Can't wait to get back to working on this fic <3
> 
> This is a little short, but I need some time to get back into writing well and writing long. Hope you guys enjoy it anyways x
> 
> As always, mistakes are all mine.

Come November, Enjolras realises that he has been in a good mood for a long, long, time, which is rare. The team is working ridiculously well, teammates able to find each other at the right place all the time, scoring more goals than before and winning all the games since the start of the season, no matter Champions League or Ligue 1 itself. Fans are wildly supportive of the team, tabloids speculating that Les Amis will be able to repeat both feats of 2009 Barcelona’s Sextuple and 2003-04’s Invincible Arsenal. Enjolras was happier than he’d let on when he first saw the articles, but quickly pushes his excitement away as he yells at the team to stay humble because the worst thing that could happen is to let the pride go to their brains. 

“Getting drunk on pride is worse than getting drunk on alcohol,” he tells the team passionately, “Thousands of fans are counting on us, stay humble, for this is our age! Bring them together with our performances, we can never slack behind!” - fire in his eyes , not even realising that it could be taken for a jab towards The almost long-forgotten Incident. It is Grantaire’s attempt at a cold expression but obviously more hurt than anything, plus Combeferre calling him an asshole yet again, and Bahorel pointedly ignoring him for the whole practice that reminded him of that. He hastily reaches Grantaire after the practice, handing him a packet of the iced apple juice that Grantaire weirdly loves so much, after a chance discovery of that on the Friday previously. He mutters with his head bowed, “I have completely forgotten about my inappropriateness, I was way too hung up on my passion”. Though their friendship has grown closer in the past months, both of them still seem physically incapable of properly apologizing to one another, resorting to their unique system of Not-Apology, which has richened in variety now that they have learned more about each other.

Enjolras has grown rather fond of Grantaire as a friend, he’ll admit. After that first lunch together, the two of them have gone out for meals every other week (to the joy of Combeferre. He loves Enjolras, he loves spending the three evenings per week but he also loves getting the chance to actually go out with Eponine more), and their meals together are always enjoyable, with Grantaire bringing Enjolras to a new restaurant every time. Every pre-match hairdo of Enjolras is done by Grantaire now, sometimes a regular bun when they’re running out of time, usually braids, though, since everyone seems to like Enjolras in braids. And while Combeferre jokingly whined about it at first at how his place as hairdresser is taken by Grantaire, Enjolras knows he's more than happy to see him and Grantaire actually being friends. Good friends. They still never agree on any topic brought up, and bicker about anything and everything, to their friends’ amusement. However, the arguments almost never end in destructive storming-outs anymore, just angrily puffed up cheeks (for Enjolras), and shit-eating smirks (for Grantaire). Enjolras would later admit to Combeferre and Courfeyrac that Grantaire and he had a lot more in common than he originally thought, to which Combeferre has responded him with “I've been telling you that since he arrived” and Courfeyrac flashing him one of the smug smirks that Enjolras couldn't fathom the reason for. 

-

“Oh my God,” Marius gasps, as the team sits on the benches of the dressing room. His face is pale as he gapes at his phone screen.

“What's wrong?” Combeferre asks, concerned, “Are you okay? Do I have to call Joly?”

“No, no,” Marius shakes his head, “I'm okay - just, look! The list for Ballon D’Or nominees is coming out on FIFA'a page in a few minutes!”

Upon hearing Marius’ words, the dressing room shuffles in excitement as the team urges Marius to display his screen up on the visualiser with the whole team so they all could find out who's nominated this year together. FIFA’s page is there plastered on the large screen of the visualiser, Marius refreshing every five seconds to see when the article will be published.

“There it is!” Bahorel exclaims when Marius presses the refresh button again, a new article appears on screen, titled “ **The 23-Man Shortlist for Ballon D’Or 2018 Out Now** ”. Anticipating whispers echo through the room and Grantaire himself is also replying to some casual remark Bahorel was speaking about as his vision skims through the room, landing on Enjolras involuntarily. He seems a little nervous, biting on his lips and hands clammy against his shirt. Enjolras was _100%_ going to be shortlisted, so he doesn't know what Enjolras is so nervous about except, but nevertheless, he just wants to rush towards Enjolras and make him relax right now (not that his company would help Enjolras even a bit, but he'd offer anyway).

It's a slideshow of the shortlisted players’ official pictures taken at the start of last season with their names and teams written below, and before Marius even clicked onto the slideshow itself, Grantaire could already hear notifications going off of phones all over the room. He could even feel his own phone vibrating in his back pocket, probably asking him what he thought about the shortlist. He’ll reply to the messages later. The shortlist itself is arranged in alphabetical order - the team nods in approval as Marius goes through the first few nominees, mostly players from the Premier League and La Liga. When Marius gets to the fourth player in the slideshow, the whole team erupts in cheers, because that’s Combeferre, eyes slightly crinkling, smiling brightly in the camera. Enjolras claps his best friend on the back excitedly, obviously extremely happy for him. While Combeferre has been one of the world’s best footballers for a few years now, and had actually scored himself a 7th place overall last year, he _really_ shone through every tournament he has been in. While he doesn't stand out like Enjolras do (well, who does? It's unfair for anyone to be compared against Enjolras), he has long been considered a front runner in the shortlist - so his appearance is no surprise, but it makes the team extremely happy anyway - a player on the shortlist always is a sound acknowledgement to the team’s success.

Grantaire chuckles to himself as he sees the next person on the shortlist, and Bahorel looks over to him in recognition. One of the two forwards from Patron-Minette. The one who shot sixteen times on target but not once did the goal get past Grantaire in the derby last season. Yeah, sure - the guy’s quite the player, but he’s damn childish. The team doesn’t really give him much attention apart from a few eye-rolls from the defence line - but the slideshow goes on and the team is already holding their breaths because they’re at the letter D already and Grantaire almost drops his water bottle in awe because _fucking hell, that’s Enjolras’ face on the screen._

Not that he didn’t know before, but now Grantaire _really_ realises how pathetic he is because 1. No one, literally no one would expect anyone else to be in the shortlist. And it’s quite obvious that he’s next because _who else’s_ name starts with an E and is going to be in the 23-man shortlist? Yeah, no. So Grantaire literally already sees it coming, but is still completely floored by the amazing sight in front of him. He really needs to get his act together. 2. He has literally seen this picture _hundreds_ of times. He’s got the picture (really - it isn’t because of how obsessed with Enjolras he is. He’s got a picture of every member of the team saved in an album on his phone, just in case he got so drunk that he couldn’t recognise them. But yeah, he does - borderline - obsess over Enjorlas’ picture a little too often). He _knows_ how Enjolras’ eyes stare determinedly at the camera, how his eyebrows furrow slightly and his face turns slightly to the left, which does wonders for his jawline. He still _feels_ his breath being taken away by the sheer beauty on the screen though, as the team erupts in cheers and Enjolras smiles widely at everyone, hugging Combeferre tight. A few players spray water from their bottles onto Enjolras’ face, which probably would quite annoy Enjolras on any other day, but he laughs in amusement as he high-fives everyone else. 

Grantaire feels a nudge, and he side-eyes Bahorel beside him. Part of him wants to just go and congratulate Enjolras because they’re actually friends now and that’s what friends do, but part of him is sure that he won’t be able to control himself if he approaches Enjolras because he looks so _happy_ and _kissable_ right now - he always does, but even more so right now. As he’s still contemplating though, the slideshow has already started again and well, alright, he guesses he’ll just plan a half-insult-half-compliment to congratulate Enjolras after this but wait _what the fuck_ he rubs his eyes once again but he’s not dreaming. Because staring back at him is his own fucking face - he doesn’t like to look in the mirror but he looks into it enough to know how he looks like. And everyone around is cheering and screaming and crashing him in hugs and he’s just. Stunned.

He knows he’s done very well the previous season, and he wouldn’t be surprised if people said he was the best goalkeeper of Europe (maybe even the world). But being nominated for the Ballon D’Or? The 23 best players of the whole world? That kind of thing does _not_ happen to people like him. He feels strange inside - happy, extremely, pride bursting through his heart for what he has achieved, how hard he’s tried finally has a tangible acknowledgement; for there’s something _real_ that makes him feel important, that makes him feel successful. But then there’s this corner of negativity tugging his heart still - the part of him that still refuses to believe in himself; nagging at him that this is all a joke, this is all a fantasy that is bound to break. A smile plasters itself onto his face, though, for this is all he could dream of as a player. He knows he’s not going to win it (Enjolras _will_. If he doesn’t, then there’s something terribly wrong with everyone voting and he will personally go and fight all of those who don’t vote for Enjorlas), but this? This is just all he's ever hoped for since he started playing for Nice all those years ago. His shock continues to block out the cheers around him as he feels embraces crushing him and someone (probably Bahorel) shaking him, but he's just frozen on his spot. He doesn't understand how the others take these nominations so gracefully, he doesn't understand how Enjolras faces all the congratulations with such poise, and speaking of Enjolras.

Enjolras stands in front of him with such a big, genuine, glowing grin on his face, hugging Grantaire _so_ tightly and exclaiming, “You've done it! I'm so proud of you!” so delightedly. _Enjolras is proud of me_ , he thinks, Enjolras doesn't feel proud very easily. Enjolras doesn't praise people very easily. Enjolras doesn't say things like these about him pretty much, ever. At this moment, he's so _fucking happy_ that there's no time for the lust to take over his mind. He just returns the hug wholeheartedly and thanks Enjolras with the biggest smile he's ever given. He feels as if he's in heaven with so many angels surrounding him, and of course, the most beautiful creature to have existed looking at him with actual joy instead of vengeance. It's the realest moment he's had for him to realise that maybe Enjolras’ existence isn't the only utmost precious thing that he's received in his Les Amis career, it's all the amazing souls that surround him, it's the family that he's found, now complete with Enjolras’ friendship.

-

“Cheers to our three nominees!”

The team gathers around the long table in the dim lights of the fancy restaurant in the middle of the city. Enjolras really dislikes partaking in such indulgences usually, for there are so many suffering in poverty and he'd much rather use the money for a plate of foie gras to help children in third world countries get adequate food and water, but he's more than willing to enjoy a night out celebrating with the team. The media is not quite satisfied with only 3 players from Les Amis nominated for the award for all they’ve achieved the past season, and the fact that half of the starting 11 played for the World Champions, but that just adds on to the pride Enjolras feels for the team. He’d much rather have three players nominated but the public feel that there should be more than have six players nominated but the public think that they don’t deserve it. The people’s recognition is way more valuable than any accolades from the official associations.

It warms his heart to see all of his friends so radiant. The media may dub Enjolras as a stoic captain who cares about results more than anything, but his teammates, his friends are far more important in his mind. After his parents moved their base to London a few years back, his teammates are the closest thing he has for a family in Paris and they just manage to keep Enjolras together no matter how hard it is or how down he feels. Valjean leads the toasts and they all sit around in blissful moods. Today has gone perfect for Enjolras - fans outside the restaurant were obviously excited, but still respectful; and contrary to popular belief, he’s the happiest about Grantaire’s nomination instead of his or Combeferre’s.

It’s not that he’s arrogant, but he has enough confidence to acknowledge the fact that he’d known for sure that he would be nominated and that he’d be a frontrunner for months. For Combeferre, there’s no reason for him not to be nominated either, and both of them know that very well. For months, Courfeyrac has already been pestering them about what they are going to wear for the ceremony ( _especially you, Enj! Your polka dot suit that one year that I didn’t style for you? Hideous!)_ so while he’s extremely happy for his best friend, it goes unspoken that they’ve seen this coming and the immense pride he feels for Combeferre is more subdued. Grantaire, though (he’s sure Combeferre feels the same way, albeit maybe less intensely, for there’s _no one_ who wishes Grantaire to achieve new heights as much as Enjolras does), his nomination makes Enjolras the most elated. If you ask Enjolras himself, he doesn’t think that Grantaire’s nomination comes as a surprise. Despite all the drama they’ve been through earlier in the Summer, Enjolras knows how hard Grantaire has worked and how well he has performed throughout the season, winning all the goalkeeper awards in tournaments he’s been in. However, in the few months of more personal conversations he’s had with Grantaire, Enjolras has realised that Grantaire doesn’t feel the same way - he doesn’t feel as if he’s as good as he really is. He doesn’t comprehend that he’s the best there is, and Enjolras is frustrated about the fact that he could do nothing to change it. So the nomination, the acknowledgement from the world-leading football association is the proof that he’s tried so hard to convey through all their lunches out. The proof that powers the argument that he’s wanted to win the very most against Grantaire, that he _is_ the best, and he is good enough. The utter exuberant gleam on Grantaire’s face as they embraced the previous afternoon has satisfied Enjolras more than any prize he’s earned himself. He feeds on the people’s support, he powers on the encouragements he receives, but he lives on his friends’ happiness.

To his right, Marius is silently gaping at Cosette, who’s sitting beside Valjean and busy forming the presentations for all the interviews and promotions that will inevitably pile up in the next month leading up to the ceremony. Ever since Cosette has first appeared in the Les Amis stadium before the start of the season to warn Enjolras about any further controversial statements in post-match interviews, Marius has been nothing short of obsessed with the girl. And Enjolras understands - Cosette is angelically gorgeous. If he were interested in women himself, and if Cosette weren’t like a scary little sister to him at this point, Enjolras probably would’ve fallen in love too. It’s obvious that Cosette takes a liking to the awkward kid too, for she’s appeared in the stadium so many more times this season. She of course claims it’s to arrange PR stuff with the team, especially Enjolras the PR nightmare, but she steals so many glances at Marius, even Enjolras has noticed. He really hopes that these two get their shits together sooner or later - it’s endearing, but getting annoying how they pine over each other. Enjolras is glad that that’ll never happen to him.

“Enj, come on, give us something!” 

Combeferre’s voice breaks Enjolras from his thoughts as he nudges Enjolras to stand up and give a little speech, an unspoken tradition of each team dinner. Usually, they are either encouragements before a big match, a fiery address of how to give back to the society in such commercial holidays during Christmas, or raging attempts to cheer everyone up after a loss in a large tournament (usually to no avail). This time, however, Enjolras plans to bid farewell to any of those, just sticking with a heartfelt expression of his pride and joy. 

“Alright, guys,” the team quiets down as Enjolras starts to talk, all eyes on him. Enjolras smiles.

“I just - I know I don’t say it much, but you all must know how much I love you all and how much you all mean to me. On a personal note, without you all, there is no way that I could’ve achieved all I did this season. As a captain, you have no idea how proud I am of all of you for everything. I just want to say - believe me when I say this.”

He looks Grantaire in the eyes, who’s looking at him so fervently. He’s focusing. Enjolras smiles wider for that.

“You’re worth it - you’re amazing. You’re so important for the team, and you all need to know that. Together, we can reach new heights, and I thank you all in advance. You all hold a part of my heart.”

The team stays silent for a moment, then bursts into loud cheers as Enjolras sits back down, probably still stunned at the heartfeltness of the whole speech. It’s rare for Enjolras to pour the depths of his emotions out for everyone to see, but this felt like the right occasion to show everyone how much they mean to the team. To use the nominations and acknowledgements as tools to validate their self-worth. While Enjolras feels strongly for anyone to be humble, confidence is the key to success in his life book and he is determined to show every single one of his friends that they are worth it.

“Since when did you get so sappy?” Combeferre asks him as they start eating the main course.

Enjolras shrugs, “I don’t know, was it weird?” His eyes stay on Grantaire, who’s not looking at Enjolras, but smiling contentedly to himself. This makes Enjolras even happier, not in a “successful” way of happiness for convincing Grantaire of an argument finally, but a genuine joy for him.

“No,” Combeferre says, “I thought it was nice. You should do it more.”

-

Enjolras munches happily on his last bite of the Tiramisu. Dessert makes him transform into a 3-year-old rather than a mature 23-year-old team captain like he’s supposed to be as he makes grabby hands at Combeferre’s half untouched cake and begs him to give the rest to Enjolras. 

As he wipes his mouth from the coffee and chocolate, he realises that Grantaire has taken out a well-decorated guitar, most probably painted on by himself. He’s proud of himself for being able to recognise this fact, but he couldn’t help but perch up his ears. Grantaire seems to notice that as their eyes meet but he quickly averts his gaze. Enjolras wonders if there’s any dirt on his face that makes him so hard to look at, but he’s sure that he’s wiped everything off. 

His teammates nudge Grantaire to start playing so he does, starting a gentle tune as his fingers dance across the strings skillfully. A stark contrast to his decisive, strong punches and firm catches of the ball in matches, Grantaire’s strokes on the strings are tender and careful. Enjolras doesn’t play music, but he knows good music. Grantaire opens his mouth and starts singing, and Enjolras couldn’t take his eyes off. Because he’s _great_. 

His warm voice swirls through the room in such warmth, and Enjolras is completely captured in it. He doesn’t understand _how_ Grantaire is so incredibly talented in all this, first there’s football, of course, then there’s art, and now music. His voice is so full of emotion and it runs right across the chords from the guitar, smooth like honey. He makes a mental note to text Grantaire after the dinner on how simply amazing his voice is - but before he finishes his thoughts, he swears Grantaire is looking straight into his own eyes as he finishes the chorus -

_“Everything I do, I do it for you.”_

_-_

“He’s great, isn’t he?” Combeferre asks Enjolras as they walk to the car. Enjolras doesn’t want to further his carbon footprint, and both of them live within 10 minutes walking distance anyway, so they share a car today. 

“Yeah,” Enjolras breathes out, “How much did I miss about him? I wish I knew him better.”

He sent his praise to Grantaire a few minutes ago, receiving a reply almost immediately. _Apollo you’re being funny again,_ he replied, and as Enjolras was going to retort with a whole speech of confidence that Grantaire should have, another message came through. _Hey - you’ve been typing for three minutes, come on, I know you mean it. Thank you, Apollo, you have no idea how much it means to me._

Enjolras couldn’t help but grin at the screen, and Combeferre chuckles lightly behind, which seems to be happening quite a lot these weeks.

“You’re learning,” Combeferre pats his back, “I’m really happy to see how you two are doing.”

“Me too.”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Football Glossary <3 Football is back, I'm happy. Although my favourite team, Barcelona, is playing like utter shit and the board is being absolutely stupid and selling one of the most promising players of our team. Fuck you, Bartomeu.
> 
> Ballon D'Or: Best Male Player of the year
> 
> Puskas Award: The best (most beautiful) goal of the season, I think it's quite controversial usually
> 
> There's again not much technical terms here. I apologize for the terrible quality and dimensions of the pictures, but my mac just isn't cooperating with me, I'm really sorry
> 
> Again, please leave kudos and comments <3 they feed me with happiness!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry - I should've updated last Friday but I was, and still am caught up with IB work! Fuck the IBs :) Anyway, here's the new chapter and I hope you guys enjoy it <3
> 
> I promise I'm working on the next chapter already. 
> 
> Not beta read. All mistakes are mine xx

This is exactly the only thing Enjolras dreads about prize season - the countless interviews he has to participate in. Feigning enthusiasm  _ all the time _ is tiring too, but Enjolras  _ is  _ excited most of the time, and he’s maintaining the enthusiasm for the fans ( _ you can do this, for the people,  _ he tells himself), so it’s manageable. Even after years of being in the middle of the spotlight and growing more comfortable under the questions fired at him, though, Enjolras still doesn’t enjoy any 1-on-1 interviews at the slightest. 

Today, he walks out of the hall particularly pissed because of how utterly  _ rude  _ the interviewer was. Courfeyrac already saw it coming when he accepted the interview request to Enjolras’ dismay, because this reporter from  _ Marca  _ is already on  _ both _ the blacklists of “Reporters Enjolras Hate” and “Reporters Enjolras Have Yelled At”, but he forced Enjolras to go in order to reaffirm his new, mature image as a captain. For support (and for an extra pair of eyes to make sure Enjolras doesn’t lose his temper), Courfeyrac arranged for him a double interview alongside Combeferre, the only person whose scary glare can send Enjolras right back to his calm, polite diplomacy.

Combeferre manages to do just that, sending icy glares at Enjolras’ right side whenever he shows any signs of flipping out - so Enjolras resorts to taking deep breaths, balling his fists, or closing his eyes in attempts to compose himself whenever the reporter asked him anything disrespectful or annoying, which was around every two minutes. For most of the hour spent in the hall, Enjolras just wanted to wipe the terribly smug expression off the reporter’s face by a comment that could certainly destroy him, even with dozens of these comments going through his head, but he doesn’t want to go through another lecture from Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

The moment they get  _ out  _ of the hall though, Enjolras’ anger just - explodes.

He snarls at Combeferre, pointing at the door of the hall accusingly. “How the  _ fuck  _ does that son of a bitch think that asking about my love life like  _ that  _ is appropriate?” 

-

That particular comment which drove Enjolras to such rage came a little after halfway through the interviews. Enjolras was already giving himself a pat on the back mentally for sitting through most of the reporters’ insensitive comments without lashing out even once, just carefully maintaining his charming smile as Combeferre looked on in approval. That must’ve made the reporter think,  _ Ah, I’ve got a tamed Enjolras here today, let me peg him on even more,  _ because what came out of his mouth afterward just had Enjolras widen his eyes in shock.

“So, your third year participating in the Ballon D’Or ceremony, hopefully  _ finally  _ getting on the podium this year after your captaincy to victory,” he starts with the most punchable look on his face.

Enjolras already foresees a shitty remark or question coming up with the reporter’s face,  _ plus  _ he’s already trying hard not to retort the reporter by saying “I literally don’t  _ care  _ about victory”, but signals the reporter to carry on with a fake, bright grin. Surely the reporter gets it, but he pretends not to see it.

“I just want to ask, now that you’re all grown up, is this  _ finally  _ the year that you bring a girl in your arms?” he asks, laughing evident in his tone and almost rolling his eyes towards Enjolras.

It’s not the fact that he’s asking such a question that makes Enjolras so angry, it’s the  _ way  _ he’s asking it, like it’s a must that Enjolras brings a girl to the ceremony, like it’s a rebellious phase that Enjolras had for not bringing girlfriends to the ceremonies before. Not only was it disrespectful to  _ him,  _ which he could get over in a few moments or so, but it was also disrespectful to any girlfriends of footballers, like they’re just some toy their partners bring to ceremonies, which he could  _ not  _ get over. He glares at the reporter, obviously fuming, but refusing to take the bait because he could literally feel Combeferre’s voice ringing in his head to  _ control your temper! _

“No, that’s not going to happen. I’m happily single.”

“Seven years since you’ve made your debut, and not even a single girl that’s caught your eye?”  
  


“No… is that a problem?”

That was met with a warning punch from Combeferre on his forearm. Enjolras shuts up, but the reporter continues with his fake smile.

“I’m going to be straight forward here,” the reporter continues, and Enjolras thinks bitterly,  _ when aren’t you straightforward,  _ “Are girls just not your cup of tea?”

“I thought you said you were being straightforward?” Enjolras snaps, he’s annoyed, “Just come on, ask me the question.”

The reporter shrugs with a smirk on his face, and doesn’t Enjolras want to punch him right there, right then. “Are you gay, Enjolras?” he starts, “Do you have a secret boyfriend? Are the rumours true - you and Grantaire?”

Look, Enjolras is very much  _ proud  _ to be gay, but first of all, he’ll come out when he wants to, thank you very much, he doesn’t need rude reporters to ask him about his sexuality in such a teasing, condescending manner. Even if he’s ready to come out, it won’t be in front of this rude bastard who decided that joking about his participation in the UNICEF ambassador programme, saying that he was “scattering around money for the Africans” was fun. He’s ready to enter a full-on rant about how his sexuality doesn’t have anything to do with the public, how being a public figure doesn’t mean having to share his most personal details, and how he doesn’t lie - he said he’s single so he  _ is  _ single, and  _ why is he even questioning Enjolras’ answers?  _

Combeferre interrupts first, though, probably sensing the fury exerted from Enjolras already. “We’re here to talk about our football today,” he nods gracefully, “No more personal questions, thank you.”

-

Credit where it’s due, the reporter does shut up with his rude questions and comments after Combeferre’s address, which Enjolras is grateful for. However, he doesn’t manage to shake away his anger, keeping his answers sharp and short. And as he exits the hall, he stomps along the carpets with the largest frown on his face, gesturing wildly at Combeferre to show him just how mad he is, though he knows Combeferre surely must already know, just nodding along to let Enjolras vent his anger.

“Yeah, I know,” Combeferre pats his shoulder, “Some of his comments and questions were really uncalled for. Good job not walking out.”

Enjolras stays silent, still frowning - he’s very much still fuming. Sometimes he wonders if it’s his problem that he gets angry so easily - and if it’s just him being sensitive to otherwise innocent comments, but then he thinks about what the reporter said again, and he decides that no, he’s not being sensitive. It’s the reporter’s problem - proven over and over again with his terrible attitude and questions, and he’s certainly glad that there’s Combeferre right next to him, or else he would’ve punched that bastard in the face.

What if on the long road, he does meet someone he likes and starts dating, though? They will certainly go out on dates, and everywhere Enjolras goes, there are paparazzi ready to snap pictures. Not only would that be a nuisance to Enjolras himself, he’d also have trouble actually enjoying his time with his future partner without being scared of people catching him. As much as he proclaims to dedicate his whole heart towards French football, and as much as he probably does not have the time for a love life right now with his prime career age barely approaching, especially as people outside of the football career struggle to understand the difficulties of it all, he still wants to find love and build a family sometime in the future. And if he does find someone, he’d want to be unapologetically in love instead of sneaking everywhere. He’d want to take pride in who he is and his life choices, and he is starting to wonder if deflecting the question whenever he’s asked about his sexuality is going to help in the long term.

In his head, he could not recall any footballers from his childhood who actively came out as gay. He knows that if he does come out, there will be so much controversy - probably losing fans and support, attracting abuse and discrimination from bigots all over the world. However, he also understands very well how big of a name he is and how much of an impact anything he says makes. He’s learnt that from hard falls, with little comments coming from his mouth blown up to huge measures for years and years. With gay footballers being such a taboo in the mainstream football world, Enjolras would very much like to be the one to stand up to it and change people’s mindset that football is not just a “masculine sport that gay people can’t excel in”. There will be boys all over the world finally realising that they can enter the field and achieve things even if they’re gay, even if people all tell them that football isn’t made for gay people. For years, there have been countless moments where he had the impulse to muster up the courage and come out to everyone, but every time he brushed it off quickly with “it’s not the right time” or “the right place”. 

Sometimes, he’s even ashamed of how much of a coward he is. For years, he’s been vocal of how people should be who they are, should not care about what others think, should take control of their own life completely, but for years, he’s been too scared to come out and admit that he’s gay because he’s afraid what others will think of him. Yeah, he’s fundamentally scared. He’s known as the brave, outspoken, living representation of a raging ball of anger and justice, but he’s so terribly horrified at the thought of being abandoned by the people, by his fans. How much of a hypocrite is he when he tells the world to stand up for injustice and inequality, but he himself is scared of telling the world who he is? 

“Ferre, I think I’m going to tell them.”

Combeferre raises his eyebrows, nods understandingly. “Let’s talk about it with Courf later, yeah?”

-

-

Two hours later, the three of them are in Enjolras’ room again, but this time, only Enjolras sits comfortably in his bed while his two best friends sit on the floor, looking intently up at Enjolras. Combeferre called up Courfeyrac an hour ago, so he probably already knows what’s going on, at least to some extent.

“I think I’m going to come out at the ceremony.”

Courfeyrac sees it coming probably but is still visibly surprised, but Combeferre just sits there, completely calm. They both stay silent for a few moments, making Enjolras doubt his decision for a moment - if both of his best friends think that this is not sensible, then he definitely will not go forward with this plan.

Enjolras first understood his sexuality when he was twelve years old. Back then, he was still at school, mingling with other children sometimes, more often either kicking his football on the field or arranging protests against the oppression of the stuck-up private school - the uniforms, the terribly expensive and disgusting cafeteria lunches, the punishment systems, which were actually quite successful back in the days. (He’s stirred up  _ so much  _ trouble at school, but good old St. Laurent would never punish him because 1. He’s the star of the school, gets so much attention 2. His parents donate quite a hefty amount every year and 3. His grades are always impeccable - which honestly proved his point over and over again, that all these private schools care about are money and results)

Every pre-teen in his school has started to have crushes and the sort, and Enjolras… was a popular guy to have a crush on, to say the least. During the course of one term, Enjolras had received more than a dozen love notes or letters by innocent girls whom usually, Enjolras found quite nice and friendly, some even Enjolras knew clearly as very attractive, or very smart, but Enjolras never really took an interest towards any of the girls. The idea of entering into a relationship with a girl… just never interested him. 

New guy at school though, his name was Constantin, had Enjolras’ eyes widen in awe. Constantin was a year above him, and they were in debate together. His hair was a dark brown, almost black, styled meticulously above his ears, always gelled. Constantin had this aura of rebellion that attracted Enjolras  _ so much _ , and him being so intelligent did nothing to help Enjolras stop liking Constantin. The two of them were always paired together in the debate team for they were the star debaters of the school, and Constantin always had good points that Enjolras failed to consider, which helped Enjolras both build himself as a debater and the complexity of his thoughts. Constantin had the gleam of a revolutionary, the fire in his eyes, the bright, charming smile that Enjolras liked so much - and it wasn’t even three months into the term that Enjolras realised that oh shit, he likes Constantin in a  _ not-just-friends  _ way. He would blush whenever Constantin smiled at him, he would dream about running his hands through Constantin’s hair, he would always want to spend time with Constantin. He had a crush on Constantin.

That was until he realised that Constantin was a racist, making a derogatory comment to Muslims in France during recess, which just took  _ all  _ the attractiveness away from him. Despite not going anywhere with Constantin though, Enjolras had him to thank for the revelation of his sexuality. For months he was utterly terrified - France was already a comparatively progressive country, with over half of his very Christian private school even being accepting towards the LGBTQ+ society, but he was still incredibly scared for what his friends and family would think when they know. Most importantly, what Coach Myriel would think. He loves Coach Myriel, and we will surely, eventually tell him and he  _ really  _ hopes Coach Myriel (and his youth teammates) will accept him for who he is. Especially because usually people see gay guys as such a strange thing in football - he hopes no one will see him as less just because of his sexuality.

His parents, bless them, were completely supportive of him, wrapping him into a huge hug right after he came out to them, telling him that they’ll love him to bits no matter what. Sometimes his parents were definitely over-affectionate to him, but Enjolras was so thankful for such amazing, intelligent people as parents especially then. He came out to Courfeyrac next during Math, and Courfeyrac just widened his eyes and mouthed  _ me too _ , which just strengthened the bond between the two of them because now they share even more in common. (No! They have never gotten  _ together  _ or even kissed. Enjolras has never even kissed anyone. Enjolras has had… things with a few people before, mostly during high school, but none of them have really sprung into a full relationship and he  _ really  _ wants to save his first kiss for his first boyfriend) And while Coach Myriel was quite shocked when he came out after practice one day - he never expected the little ball of fire (he was quite small before his growth spurt at 13 - barely 145cm when he was 12) as gay, but he was also incredibly accepting, never treated him different from before and only judging him based on his football skills. Enjolras didn't meet Combeferre until he leaped up to the U-15 team a year later, but after hitting it off, he had felt the urge to tell Combeferre everything about himself - and Combeferre wasn't only supportive of Enjolras, he also helped Enjolras research and understand more about his sexuality and even helped him organise his first rally at school about LGBTQ+ equality. 

He hadn’t come out to many people in his life for the fear of rumours being spread like wildfire, and he had known many terribly close-minded assholes in his youth team, but thankfully, all of those have not proceeded to the first team of Les Amis. Some of them are still playing in one of the national leagues, but Enjolras doesn’t give any shits about them, just glad that they aren’t in his life anymore. 

He’s been contemplating coming out to all of his teammates for a few months now. He trusts them with all his heart, treats them like family and just knows that none of them will ever rat him out to the reporters even if they transfer. None of the people in the first team are bigots from all their discussions about injustice and inequality, and Enjolras knows for a fact that  _ at least  _ one other teammate isn’t straight - Grantaire. Grantaire is pretty much known by the whole of the world as bisexual, with paparazzi photos of him kissing boys and girls alike throughout the years and him never denying it, saying that “he really just likes beautiful people”. So he knows the team will be behind him, but again, his irrational fear has stopped him from doing it before, but he’s done with keeping it a secret.

Courfeyrac is the first to speak up, “Look, as a manager? I should probably tell you to hold it off because you know you’d break the internet, but as a friend, I just want you to know that I love you and I will completely support any decision you make, and we’ll deal with the things that come with it later.”

He says it with the warm, approachable smile that gives him his unique charm, and Enjolras trusts that he means what he says completely. Combeferre agrees to what Courfeyrac says, emphasizing that no matter what happens, no matter what the feedback is like, they  _ will  _ be here for him and they will let nothing happen to his career, which was probably what made Enjolras so anxious about coming out in the first place. He’s afraid of what the people will think of him, of course, but he’s more afraid of his career in football, which is what he’s so passionate about and what he loves to be taken away from him. He leaps off the bed and wraps his arms around his two best friends. He knows they know how much Enjolras loves them, but he’s never been more grateful for the two of them being so supportive and loving. 

“You’ll be so much happier without worrying about outing yourself all the time, and trust me when I say, everyone wants to see more of that glorious smile on your face.”

He's sure that Courfeyrac adds this comment to lighten up the sentimental mood in Enjolras’ room right now, and it works because it has Enjolras jokingly punching Courfeyrac in the arm and Combeferre laughing like a madman at Enjolras flushing. However, that doesn’t diminish any lovingness in the room as they enter a 10-minute group hug as Enjolras tackles Courfeyrac to the floor.

-

Grantaire is worried about Enjolras.

Enjolras just did not seem like himself throughout the practice, often unfocused and looking deep in thought, missing targets way more usual than he should be, and Grantaire has tried his hand on the good old trick of riling Enjolras up a few times to get him irritated and probably bring him out of his thoughts to scowl and yell at him, but even that was to no avail. He’s thought about the possibility that Enjolras was sick, but he knows well how Enjolras looks when he’s sick - Enjolras is not a good patient. He’s  _ extra  _ grumpy when he’s sick and would definitely have yelled at Grantaire, plus yell at everyone else, but that just was not it. Enjolras wasn’t grumpy, he was just… out of it. This scares Grantaire even more, because Enjolras is  _ always  _ focused. Even when he’s grumpy and he’s sick, he’s focused. His eyes are burning no matter what and his mind is always focused on whatever he’s doing. Grantaire worries tremendously about what's happening that has Enjolras acting like this today and he decides to ask if Enjolras is okay after the practice (just because he can now. He does a giddy dance in his mind whenever he thinks about that). 

As the team sits on the benches in the dressing room, though, chatting away on whatever topic they’re on about, Enjolras suddenly stands up, expression serious and guarded, and announces, “I’ve got something to tell you all.”

Fuck. He seems so serious about this, and this  _ something  _ that Enjolras is going to tell them is surely the source of all his worries. Is he leaving the team next season? Did anything happen to him? Grantaire’s head spins at the thought of that - he knows it’s unlikely, for Enjolras loves Les Amis so much and he’d most likely want to be a one-club man until he retires at a ripe old age, but he just cannot fathom with the possibility of not having the chance to see Enjolras every week, to witness his out-of-the-world skills every practice, to hear him talk of justice and revolution every day. He looks at Enjolras intently, and to see him fidget in uncertainty? That’s just so  _ wrong  _ and Grantaire is utilizing all his self-control right now not to rush towards Enjolras and calm him down. The team all looks towards Enjolras in silence because they all sense how serious this is, and Grantaire is silently begging Enjolras to just tell him what’s going on and stop keeping him in suspense because it’s seriously killing him.

Combeferre looks at him in understanding right beside him, and has his palm on Enjolras’ back for support, so he knows what’s happening, Grantaire supplies.

“So,” Enjolras takes a deep breath and starts, “I just want to say that I’m telling you this because I love you all and I trust all of you with my whole heart, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I haven’t told many people about this - but I truly think that it’s time for me to start getting the truth out.”

The team still stays in silence, but Grantaire thinks that he’s starting to have a sense of what’s happening. He continues to look at Enjolras’ face, expression unreadable.

“I would really appreciate it if you all keep this secret for now, I’ll deal with the public in my own pace, but - I’m gay. I like men and men only,” once Enjolras got to his point, he was visibly relieved. His easy smile is now back on his angelic face, the fervent aura back in his eyes, and he’s looking at every single player on the team, all silent in awe, processing the weight of the news just presented in front of them. There have always been  _ so many  _ speculations about Enjolras being gay, but that being confirmed by the man in question himself - it’s not a light piece of news to deal with.

Bahorel gets up first, wrapping his arms around Enjolras. The whole team follows him and wraps Enjolras into the biggest group hug  _ ever _ , biggest in name at least, the people involved in the hug probably having a net worth combined to worth some country’s GDP. It’s somewhat strange to see this bunch of alpha males, all frowny and determined on the field, often yelling and screaming, piled up together in such warmth, shouting “I love you”s to the captain, but it’s quite a wholesome scene to see. Grantaire himself would love to join the pile of affection, but does not simply because he’s still processing what Enjolras just said.

Look, he knows he has already considered the off-chance of Enjolras taking a liking towards him when they started becoming friends, and he can’t say that he never saw Enjolras being gay coming, but now that Enjolras’ sexuality became an apparent truth confirmed and laid in front of him, he could not help but start fantasizing a little about a possible romance with Enjolras on the spot. He knows that Enjolras knows that he’s bisexual, that he’s never explicitly confirmed but never made a secret either, and Enjolras  _ explicitly  _ saying that he likes “men and men only” had just given Grantaire so much hope even though he’s been desperately trying to suppress, because realistically, even if Enjolras were gay, he’d only like men who are talented, smart, shares his revolutionary thoughts with him and could accompany him to protests and rallies, and Grantaire is none of that. 

Whenever he used to dream about Enjolras or drool over his pictures and videos, though, the thought of assuming Enjolras as being straight and not interested in men at all kept his fantasies from being uncontrollable, and without that as a barrier? Grantaire is frankly terrified of how vivid and far his fantasies are going to get when he faces the perfect specimen of the man in front of him. He’s never going to stop loving Enjolras, he’s long come to terms with that now, but now he’s just… so crazy for Enjolras, he doesn’t know how he will stop himself from clinging onto Enjolras. He used to think back when Enjolras was constantly angry at him that there’s absolutely no way that he could fall more in love with Enjolras, but now, every little quirk of Enjolras he learns about just makes him even more endearing to Grantaire. Every time he scrunches his face up when he sees Grantaire order anything with tomato paste, every time he coos at the little puppies on the street (which honestly makes the owners happier than Enjolras), and every time he sings in the car. God, he’s so awful, Grantaire didn’t know Enjolras could be awful at anything but he’s absolutely helpless in singing. Grantaire loves music, so he always has the radio on in his car and hums it under his breath, but Enjolras never joined in until  _ Bohemian Rhapsody  _ came on a few weeks ago.

Grantaire seriously was about to crash his car when he heard Enjolras sing the first time - he wasn’t just  _ not good _ , he’s tone-deaf. He was just howling out non-pitched words, leading Grantaire into a fit of snicker. Enjolras glares at Grantaire, but continued on his emotional belting of the  _ “Mama - life had just begun”,  _ and as Grantaire joined in, Enjolras grinned and was even deeper into his karaoke session, them singing countless songs from the 70s as they approached their lunch spot for the day. Normally, Grantaire was a very judgemental person when it comes to music - he cringes visibly whenever someone sings off-key, but when Enjolras does it, it’s so goddamn cute that Grantaire just could do nothing but look to him fondly and smile like an idiot. Since that day, he has always let Enjolras choose the playlist whenever they’re in his car, just to have Enjolras sing.

God, he really is stupidly in love.

So, yes, he’s so immensely proud of Enjolras for being so brave, but even stronger is his happiness that Enjolras is gay and that his chance of getting with Enjolras is becoming tangible. Still just a dream, but tangible. He feels terrible about that, because he knows that he shouldn’t let his own selfish desires take over his pride for Enjolras, but he couldn’t help it.

Today is another day of Enjolras having lunch with Grantaire, though, so even after the warm embrace that Enjolras received from all of the team, and they all have gone their separate ways after practice, the two of them are left in the dressing room. The smile Enjolras has plastered on in his face still lingering, and Enjolras looks up at Grantaire from where he’s seated, his glorious golden hair falling onto his face, dishevelled from all the hugging. His face has made Grantaire swoon a thousand times over and this is not an exception.

“You seem shocked, Grantaire,” Enjolras raises his eyebrows, still smiling easily, but with a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.

Oh gosh, Grantaire really doesn’t want Enjolras to think that he doesn’t support him, because that could not be farther from the truth. He walks closer to Enjolras as calm as he could be and wraps him into a tight hug, because that is the only way he could show how proud he is. 

“Enjolras, I’m so proud of you - you have no idea.”

He feels Enjolras smile against his chest, and he has fucking heart palpitations. He really hopes Enjolras doesn’t notice that, and he swears he’s this close to dying when Enjolras tightens his arms around Grantaire’s torso. They silently pull away from each other, and Enjolras continues talking.

“I’m going to announce it to the public in the Ballon D’Or ceremony,” he says, determined.

Enjolras keeps hitting Grantaire with sudden confessions when they’re alone, and this both brings Grantaire so much joy, because, Enjolras trusts him enough to tell him personal things that others don’t know about but  _ also,  _ Grantaire silently begs Enjolras to stop shocking him with these revelations because he really doesn’t need more signs for him to fool himself of a chance with Enjolras, and this isn’t helping.

“You always know how to put on a show,” he smiles. Probably isn’t the most comforting thing to say, but it’s the best Grantaire could offer in his state of mind.

“Come on, Grantaire, don’t tease me,” Enjolras turns his head, “I’m really quite terrified to be honest,” he continues, voice way smaller than it should be.

Grantaire shifts himself nearer to Enjolras and slings his arm over Enjolras’ shoulders. Their eyes meet, Enjolras’ large, blue ones shining with intensity as usual - and he swears he feels a bolt of electricity shooting between the two of them. He makes sure Enjolras is looking right at him, because he needs to get this message across. Because he cannot have Enjolras fear about something he shouldn’t be fearing about - Enjolras should feel proud of himself and he should look forward to what’s next. Terrified is not a good look on Enjolras (not right. Any look is a good look on Enjolras… but… you know what he means), and Grantaire would do anything to get that uncertainty out of Enjolras’ face.

“Look, Enj, we’re proud of you, all of us, and we’ve got your back no matter what. You should be proud of yourself too - there’s nothing to be afraid of. If anyone does any shit to your career, I’m going to stop playing too. All of us will, I know, no one will go on without you.”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows again, but the smile in his expression gives Grantaire permission to continue.

“If you’re afraid of the public opinion, then fuck them! Since when have you been a person who cares about what others think? You always go ahead and do what you think is right, and this is right,” Grantaire’s eyes are as determined as can be.”

At that comment, Enjolras grins and opens his mouth, probably going to comment on how Grantaire  _ finally  _ admits that he’s right for the first time in… forever, but Grantaire quickly shuts him up by rolling his eyes.

“I’m being sentimental here, don’t interrupt,” he says fondly. “The people who refuse to take you as who you are are not  _ worth  _ being your fans, and you’re better off without them. They’re terrible human beings who are opposite to who you want your fans to be and how you educate them, so fuck them. Just know that I’ll always be here for you, okay? Be proud of who you are. Repeat after me, I’m gay and proud and fuck everyone who says otherwise.”

Enjolras isn’t one to follow usually, but he complies. “I’m gay and proud and fuck everyone who says otherwise,” he chuckles, and lunges himself onto Grantaire again, bear-hugging him.

“Thank you, Grantaire,” he murmurs, and Grantaire hears it more clearly than any loud, passionate speeches Enjolras has ever made onstage.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're getting there I swear! And I'm also getting the hang of making multimedia content so yay to that. 
> 
> Football Glossary/Explanations!
> 
> On the taboo of gay footballers in the football field, I think it's very much true. I cannot recall any big names in the football world that are gay and with further research, Wiki says there are like, 10 footballers in total (including retired ones) and none of them are worldwide stars like Enjolras in this fic. Julien Enjolras' fame = Leo Messi / C. Ronaldo in this fic. Idk why either - it's just a thing, or, they're closeted? Idk. Most famous footballers have really beautiful girlfriends / wives.
> 
> Ballon D'Or and FIFA Best awards are separated now (since 2015) but for the sake of convenience they're put tgt in a ceremony so I can put the FIFA best goalkeeper award in the fic LMAO
> 
> Kudos and comments FEED my soul so, please, feel free (I encourage you please) to leave them below, tell me what you think ;) the more monstrously big it is the better xxxx AHAAHAH


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire hasn’t had lunch with Enjolras for two weeks now - he knows he shouldn’t have gotten used to hanging out with Enjolras and Enjolras was probably prone to giving up on him sooner or later, but he stupid, hopeful brain still decided to get used to Enjolras’ company. Enjolras not automatically approaching him after practices and getting into one of their cars parked at the stadium really throws him off, still - it takes an average human being 28 days to get into a habit, so he supposes he needs two more weeks to be back into the habit of Enjolras not giving him the time of the day. It was even stranger for him though - Enjolras was still being terribly nice to him all the time, laughing at his jokes, smiling at him. It wasn’t as if he was back to hating everything Grantaire does, or only yelling at Grantaire, which makes it even weirder, and even more horrible for Grantaire - he still clambers onto the scraps of affection from Enjolras every time they meet, but every time Enjolras leaves the stadium hastily, Grantaire couldn’t help but feel a sense of disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone I'm back with a chapter !!! okay this wasn't written at first but like. Mont needs a welcome to this fic, not that he'll be like a main character or anything bc I can't write multiple character arcs well but like. nevermind. I do have a soft spot for him usually so like. Anyway I hope you enjoy this chapter xxx
> 
> As always, all mistakes are mine. <3

Enjolras is really smart and he knows it - if you ask him, he’d probably be able to recall almost everything he’s learnt during his days in St. Laurent. However, in these past weeks, he keeps getting reminded by how incredibly stupid it is for him to be  _ scared  _ of his teammates know about his sexuality. The whole team couldn’t have dealt with it better. They were supportive, didn’t make a big deal out of it, and gave him just enough love that he feels like he’s the luckiest man in the world to have such amazing friends.

Especially Grantaire - now that Enjolras has come out to him and the whole team, there seems to be something unspoken that’s shared between them. He doesn’t assume, but he doesn’t know any non-heterosexual footballers active right now other than him and Grantaire, and that seems to bring them closer subconsciously. No matter how supportive his family and most of his friends are, there’s just  _ something  _ missing, because they just aren’t the same as Enjolras, because they just can’t relate with Enjolras. Grantaire, though - Grantaire doesn’t even give anything he does much thought, Grantaire doesn’t even really care at all, but Grantaire seems to always say the  _ right  _ thing. Sometimes it’s ridiculous, and most of the time it wouldn’t be the best response in Enjolras’ head, but it just comes out… right, and it always puts a smile on Enjolras’ face. He couldn’t explain it, it’s kind of magical when he thinks about it (not that he does a lot, really, he doesn’t). 

Grantaire doesn’t give Enjolras the typical supportiveness as everyone else - people are unconditionally loving, but Grantaire keeps his taunts, keeps his smirks, keeps his jokes. When they have lunch together, Grantaire would make sure that there’s no one eavesdropping, and would then pull out his phone and go through the hot models and actors he’s followed on instagram and “matchmake” Enjolras with him. It’s mostly just him talking nonsense, and Enjolras would roll his eyes and say “but  _ you’re  _ the one who follows these guys anyways - they’re not even  _ that  _ hot”, but Enjolras thinks it’s incredibly funny.  _ No,  _ he’d never use the word cute to describe Grantaire, not cute, why would that be cute? Grantaire even created an account on Tinder with Enjolras’ face titled  _ Julien, 23, Paris _ , to find a possible love interest for him, with countless men (and women, even though Grantaire’s clearly stated in “Julien”’s bio that  _ he likes men and men only _ , direct quote of Enjolras’ speech but hey, no one would get it). Enjolras was pretty freaked out when Grantaire first showed him the account, because  _ Grantaire what the fuck, you’re not outing me, are you?  _ But Grantaire just chuckled lightly and grabbed his arms gently (Grantaire has large and warm palms. They are very soothing) and told him that he needn’t worry  _ at all  _ with his very, very warm eyes. And he was certainly right, no one really believed that  _ Julien  _ was the actual Julien Enjolras. Most of the guys recognised Enjolras’ face and were just there for a good chat since they knew it’s gotta be a catfish, but Grantaire would  _ actually  _ compile a list of “potential suitors” every night and send screenshots to Enjolras.

(“This guy is a lawyer, Enj, if you get into trouble he could save you.” “Oh my god, you’re gonna hate this guy, we had an argument about systemic racism. It was so fun to pretend to be you and all angry and shit, you have no idea.”)

Enjolras would never admit it out loud, but he very much enjoys the little snarky summaries of Tinder matches from Grantaire every night. Often he finds himself sitting on his sofa, his soft ceiling light shining right above him, laughing soundly at Grantaire’s comments on the new matches, no matter the looks (“Don’t you think he looks like a seahorse in some angles?” “You don’t really make sense, Grantaire…”), the fashion (“Enj, I think I found something worse than your wavy striped suit last year!” “Was it really that bad?”, spoiler alert, yes), or the attitude (“Ugh, this guy is just so desperate, oh gosh, he’s starting to sext… I didn’t even reply to his hello!” “Just delete the profile!”) - Enjolras could almost hear Grantaire’s widely exaggerated voice reenacting the exchanges between “Julien” and his matches. Too many nights have him staring at his phone, chuckling at the shitty photoshop made my Grantaire of Enjolras and some actor on Grantaire’s instagram that Enjolras would comment casually as “quite good looking” or something along the lines, with Combeferre and Courfeyrac looking at him, suspicious smirks on their face - and he’s glad that they don’t pry, because now that he’s thinking about it, he wouldn’t know how to answer. Engaging in such  _ dumb  _ affairs like fake Tinder accounts with Grantaire is just not an Enjolras thing to do, but he enjoys it so very much.

(“Imagine if they find out that the great Julien Enjolras is actually reading these chats,” Grantaire laughs easily as he types out a response to this  _ Sacha,  _ a 25-year-old business student in Reims.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I still think you’re being ridiculous, you know,” he sighs.

“But you love it. Or else, why are we still friends?”

Enjolras does like it - he cannot say anything to retort. Throughout these past months, Grantaire has leapt up his “friendship list” as one of Enjolras’ dearest, most trustworthy friends and that is not going to change anytime soon. “What - Grantaire - I’d never say  _ that! _ ” he complains as he looks over Grantaire’s shoulder.)

Enjolras is even more grateful for this kind of support - he does love all his other friends and he doesn’t want to sound ungrateful. He appreciates  _ all  _ the support in his life, but Grantaire’s kind is just so natural, so easy - there’s no deliberate care put in it, which makes Enjolras feel it even deeper. Under all the teasing and fun, Enjolras feels the support Grantaire has for him through all his actions. He knows all that’s happening, all the things that Enjolras is thinking about are stressing him out, so he uses the friendly banter that they’re so used to to make Enjolras more at ease (he found that out himself. It’s  _ totally  _ not what Combeferre told him the other night when they were talking about Grantaire, and what Combeferre  _ did not  _ say totally didn’t make Enjolras feel fuzzy all inside with no apparent reason).

During the past week Courfeyrac has  _ finally  _ started his full-on fussing about Enjolras’ outfit to all the prize ceremonies, which was a little later than normal. In the past years, Courfeyrac starts his daily visits to Enjolras’ house to get Enjolras to try new suits sent over by hundreds of brands from all over the world more than a month before any ceremony starts, but this year Enjolras hasn’t seen any frantic texts until yesterday, when seven tuxedos arriving at the office. Courfeyrac has eased a little in his dedication to Enjolras’ fashion choices and such in his public affairs because he’s mostly occupied every day by Jehan now (it’s been  _ months  _ and they’re still the most disgusting couple in the world, Enjolras suggests, he loves them so much but God, he really doesn’t even want to spend 10 minutes with those two lovebirds beside him smooching). Enjolras will make sure that he pouts enough at Courfeyrac and complain about the lack of attention received recently, but he knows that Courfeyrac must know how elated Enjolras truly is for him. Courfeyrac deserves everything nice and Jehan gives him more than that. If Enjolras ever enters a relationship in the future, he will make sure that he finds someone who he adores, and who adores him just as much as Courfeyrac and Jehan adore each other.

FIFA posted the top three contestants for Ballon D’Or two days ago, and just like the public has speculated, it’s himself, Combeferre and Montparnasse. If you ask him his honest opinion, he would tell you that no, Montparnasse does not deserve to be on the Ballon D’Or list - because how he views the  _ best footballer  _ isn’t just the number of goals you score, the trophies you get, the skills that you have. Yeah, they’re very important for sure, and Montparnasse is a  _ damn talented  _ bastard, but a bastard nonetheless. Montparnasse is 3 years older than him, and a striker in Patron-Minette Paris. Montparnasse had established himself as a star of Patron-Minette while Enjolras was still in the B team of Les Amis, his dark hair and bad-boy exterior earning a lot of fans, but Enjolras was never, and still isn’t a fan of Montparnasse’s playing style and personality. 

To put it simply, Montparnasse is just one of the rudest people he’s ever met. He wouldn’t go so far and say that he  _ hates  _ Montparnasse - because he still believes that Montparnasse is not a totally bad person. Montparnasse participates in enough charity events himself, especially for the underprivileged children in his home country Spain, especially those near his hometown in Malaga. Enjolras respects that about him very much, but he seriously cannot name  _ one  _ encounter with Montparnasse that has been positive for himself. 

The first time he met Montparnasse in the Youth Champions League 2008, he glanced sulkily at Enjolras’ Nike Euro 2008 Special Edition of football boots that his grandfather gifted him for his 14th birthday, and must have decided that he hated Enjolras thoroughly at first sight. He rolled his eyes and muttered “rich bastard” in Spanish under his breath, to Enjolras’ dismay (he did understand a few words of Spanish, mostly insults), and since then has always antagonised Enjolras no matter where he was or what he did. Okay, yeah, Enjolras  _ gets  _ it, he’s faced his fair share of eye-rolling when people see his expensive clothes or shoes, especially on the football field where most kids are less fortunate than he is. But 10 years on, and Montparnasse still looks at Enjolras with the same disdain, and it’s as if no matter what Enjolras does, Montparnasse looks at it the worst way possible. 

When Enjolras was announced as the UNICEF World Ambassador two years ago, Montparnasse told his teammates that Enjolras was just “faking his way to become a philanthropist and France’s sweetheart”, one of whom told Enjolras that while they were visiting a children’s hospital collectively as the representatives of Ligue 1 players. As much as Enjolras disliked Patron-Minette as a team, there are still players who are nice to talk to and Enjolras would definitely  _ not  _ be a person who judges a person based on which team they play for. Whenever Enjolras sees Montparnasse, on the field or on the streets, there’s  _ always  _ something snarky coming out of Montparnasse’s mouth. And it’s not a friendly taunt like Grantaire’s, but those kinds of snark actually  _ hurt  _ Enjolras, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it. Everything Enjolras does, every charity event he holds, every penny he donates, he means it with his whole heart and to see someone disregard it and twisting it into some kind of ulterior move just makes Enjolras both angry and defeated. For years he’s tried his very best to prove to everyone that yes he’s privileged, he was born with a silver spoon, but he’s  _ seen  _ so many people suffering and so many people struggling as he grew up, and he’s damn passionate to help those people with all he can. He  _ truly  _ believes that everyone deserves a chance to shine and he’ll do all he can to eliminate discrimination. Every fiery word he spits out burns deeply in his soul and he just  _ wishes  _ his most talented competition would see that.

Most talented competition - yes, Montparnasse is one of the most gifted, skillful footballers that Enjolras has ever seen. The playing style of the two of them are poles apart, Enjolras likes to play his football practical, finding the most direct way to attack, quickly dribbling past defenders, going for goal right when he sees an opening. Montparnasse… isn’t like that. He is flashy, he charms the public with his over-the-top skills, be it a random rainbow flick when he could easily sprint past the defenders simply, or a back heel goal out of the blue. It has ended in some of the most gorgeous goals ever, Enjolras will definitely give him that, but he just deems it unnecessary to play football in such a lavish way. 

Enjolras doesn’t even care about his show-off style of playing that much, nor his personal grudge towards Enjolras. He’s… _a lot,_ he knows, not everyone likes him, and that’s okay. However, he’s just not a fan of Montparnasse’s conduct on the field. He’s violent, cunning, merciless. He guesses that’s a part of Montparnasse’s charm, the _Python of Malaga,_ and why his fans love him so much, but it’s just not Enjolras’ cup of tea. Often, Montparnasse goes in for potentially career-ending tackles without even flinching, and even when he an opponent being injured by his own dirty tackle, there is _not_ an inch of regret or empathy on his face, he just narrows his eye at the opponent on the floor, as if the guy is faking his injury to get Montparnasse a red card. His temper is _uncontrollable_ (hypocritical, Enjolras’ mind suggests. Coming from a player who’s literally _known_ for his temper and outbursts, even on the biggest stage of football), but hear him out. Enjolras only lashes out when some kind of thing tips him over or when there’s an unfair decision called on his team. When he, or his team is rightly punished, maybe he’d frown a little or mutter a few profanities under his breath, but he’d never lash out if nothing happens. Montparnasse, however, screams at the referee whenever a whistle is blown on Patron-Minette. Even when it’s a clear foul committed by his team, he screams at all the officials, insults their whole family. He refuses to get off the pitch when he’s sent off, he picks fights with the opponents, sometimes, to get someone _else_ sent off _with_ him. It’s all ridiculous, Enjolras thinks, and that makes Montparnasse the most carded player of Ligue 1 of all time at only 26. 

It doesn’t end there - another thing that Enjolras hates is that Montparnasse  _ dives  _ every single chance he gets. Diving is one of the most despicable actions in football, Enjolras thinks, because it indicates both cheating and giving up, two of the things Enjolras hates most. As an attacker, you are supposed to do everything you can to go for goal, not just fake a fall without the opponent even touching you. Even if the opponent pulls your jersey or whatever, you are supposed to just get up if you can, get the ball and rush towards the goal. That’s basic respect for the game and your fans, instead of cheating your way to a penalty, and possibly, unfairly rigging the game by sending your opponent off. The fact that Montparnasse does that day in, day out? And his smug expression whenever the decision favours him - just, no. No thanks. However, Montparnasse is damn charming, especially with the press. Somehow he makes the news about him almost positive most of the time, and he has a great image in the public. Most people even take this as the largest reason why Montparnasse got the Ballon D’Or over Enjolras the year before.

So yeah, to say that Enjolras isn’t a big fan of Montparnasse is an understatement. However, when Courfeyrac showed him the three finalists for the Ballon D’Or, he was busy hugging the shit out of Combeferre because he deserves the recognition. Ranking 7th the year before was a  _ robbery _ , and he’s glad that all he’s achieved (mostly the World Cup) this year has finally got its rightful attention from the press and team captains all over the world. It was when he saw this new interview from Montparnasse a few days later titled  **“Why I’m Still the Best in the World - Pablo Montparnasse”** that Enjolras was even reminded of the presence of this towering arrogance.

Enjolras didn’t even read that article, just focused on his own  _ pile  _ of interviews stacked up every single day. Courfeyrac is arranging him  _ so many  _ interviews that he wants to strangle him sometimes, but Enjolras understands where Courfeyrac is coming from. Courfeyrac is trying to maximise his media presence leading up to the awards season, and to garner a better image from the public. Enjolras has his army of millions of fans all over the world, but it really never hurts to gain more positive support, especially since Enjolras is appearing exponentially more approachable nowadays. Enjolras himself does not enjoy interviews after interviews, but he knows very well that he’s not just a football player. He is an image, a personality, or somewhat even resembling a product needed to polish and presented to the public, and just by not being difficult, he could make Courfeyrac’s, and many others’, lives a lot easier.

He finds himself being quite grumpy these few days though, interviews back-to-back from eight in the morning to three in the afternoon. Plus he is starting to plan his yearly Christmas Charity Train, which is taking up quite a bit of his time, though he enjoys it very very much. It makes his life incredibly busy though, along with the regular training and matches that are still going on every week. He’s getting less and less time to spend with his friends casually, he’s skipped lunch with Grantaire for the second week straight now (Grantaire hasn’t said anything, though), and he doesn’t really like that. The only time when he’s relaxed is his weekly triumvirate get-togethers with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, but even those are slowly shifting to discussions about the upcoming award ceremonies.

He can’t believe he’s saying this, but he needs some silliness in his life.

-

The alarm rings beside Grantaire with a shrill and his eyes shoot open.  _ 6:35am. What the fuck?  _

Even on a 8am training day, he gets up at like, 7. It takes him barely 15 minutes to get ready, and 10 minutes to reach the stadium. Getting out of the house at 7:20 gives him more than enough time to do Enjolras’ hair and even some time to hang around before training actually starts.

There isn’t even training today, so why the fuck would he wake up at 6:35 when the Sun is barely up? He glances at his phone with sleepy eyes, and  _ oh fuck. _ The words  _ BREAKFAST WITH APOLLO: 0725 HIS HOUSE  _ stares back at him and he scrambles out of bed and practically rolls into the bathroom, starting to pull himself together. 

He hasn’t had lunch with Enjolras for two weeks now - he knows he shouldn’t have gotten used to hanging out with Enjolras and Enjolras was probably prone to giving up on him sooner or later, but he stupid, hopeful brain still decided to get used to Enjolras’ company. Enjolras not automatically approaching him after practices and getting into one of their cars parked at the stadium really throws him off, still - it takes an average human being 28 days to get into a habit, so he supposes he needs two more weeks to be back into the habit of Enjolras not giving him the time of the day. It was even stranger for him though - Enjolras was still being terribly nice to him all the time, laughing at his jokes, smiling at him. It wasn’t as if he was back to hating everything Grantaire does, or only yelling at Grantaire, which makes it even weirder, and even more horrible for Grantaire - he still clambers onto the scraps of affection from Enjolras every time they meet, but every time Enjolras leaves the stadium hastily, Grantaire couldn’t help but feel a sense of disappointment.

“He’s just really busy these few days,” Combeferre tells him, obviously attempting to be comforting, but a little too smugly for his liking, “trust me. He loves your company.”

“Yeah, sure,” Grantaire rolls his eyes. He’s a big boy, he can deal with this. Logically, he knows that Combeferre is right - Enjolras is everywhere on the news right now, interviews coming out every other day, his face in countless new photoshoots, which is truly a blessing to the world, seeing that gorgeous face everywhere. Grantaire may or may not have bought a few of those magazines too, but he’s still a little downcast without Enjolras’ silly quirks around him that he doesn’t see during practices or matches. It seems habitual now that he plans which restaurant to take Enjolras to after every practice, and it feels empty when he dines alone. He doesn’t have the right to  _ miss  _ Enjolras, he knows, they are barely becoming close, but he still does.

So, Grantaire will admit (albeit reluctantly, he has an image, you know) that he totally did a happy dance on the kitchen floor when he received the message from Enjolras yesterday evening - “ _ Grantaire, we haven’t dined together in a while. Sorry I’ve been really busy - are you possibly free for breakfast tomorrow, before I have another Interview with this American paper?”  _

To say that he could feel his eyes light up was not an understatement - he quickly responded, “ _ I’m free. Yes. What time?” _

_ “I don’t want to drive. 7.25am my house?” _

Fuck, that’s early. But Grantaire will take it - Enjolras has an interview at, what, 8, he supposes, and he’s willing to squeeze the little time before the interview to have breakfast with Grantaire,  _ actively _ . That alone already made Grantaire probably the happiest man in Paris right then, and he would give up every single minute of sleep for some time with Enjolras, just seeing that kid-like, adorable smile he has and listening to him talk about basically anything. The thought of having  _ that  _ to kickstart his day just makes even getting up at a criminally early time worth it.

Well, he can’t look  _ too bad _ , going out with Enjolras - he is aware that he probably does not look anywhere near good after practices, when he usually has lunch with Enjolras - all sweaty and hair all over the place. He's aware that he needs time to prepare himself in the morning  _ just  _ to become coherent or less stupid in general, and he needs to sort himself out  _ quick,  _ throwing on the khaki trench coat he just bought over a beige jumper lying in his wardrobe, and honestly he thinks that this outfit looks very good on him, or at least good enough for him to face Enjolras, which says a lot already.

He drives south right as he hops on his car - 17 minutes until 7:25, and if the traffic behaves today, he will make it to Enjolras’ on time. He knows Enjolras is never, ever late, and he doesn’t want Enjolras to wait for him (because Enjolras  _ should not  _ have to wait for anyone, especially him). He thanks God silently when all the traffic lights he encounters are coincidentally green - small bits of blessings and luck like these do make him very happy, and he turns the corner of Enjolras’ street by 7:20. However, as he approaches the prettiest house of the street (for the prettiest person in Paris), Enjolras is already leaning against the gate, his black ( _ definitely faux)  _ leather coat flapping slightly in the wind. Shit, it’s not even 10 degrees Celsius today, and Enjolras is  _ so  _ underdressed for the cold. He pulls up as quickly as he can and opens the door, signalling Enjolras inside.

“Shit, Enj! Aren’t you cold?” he asked Enjolras, who’s surprisingly not shivering just yet. Enjolras has never been a fan of the cold.

“Thermal underwear,” Enjolras shrugs, “Courf picked out my outfit today, and he told me to wear thermal underwear underneath.”

That’s good, Grantaire exhales, as Enjolras squeezes in the passenger seat right next to Grantaire. “Thanks for getting up,” Enjolras adds, looking straight at the Sun in front of them. “I just missed having lunch with you, and I don’t know, this is really the only time I have this week, breakfast time.”

Grantaire could not help his smile at this. It just fills his heart with warmth so intense whenever Enjolras mentions how he values time with him, especially casually like this.

Enjolras then turns towards Grantaire and adds, smiling, “I know you don’t like getting up, so, yeah - no, I swear, I missed even seeing you faking me on Tinder.”

Okay, Grantaire’s brain is definitely malfunctioning now as he tries to figure out what to say. What came out was - “Wanna put up a song on the radio?”

Enjolras obliges happily, fumbling with the radio, humming some incomprehensible noises under his breath, and he looks so angelic under the still rising Sun. He arrives at the playlist for 90s boy bands, and starts to sing  _ so fucking loudly,  _ totally offkey, and Grantaire fucking missed that atrocious sound in his car.

“You sound so goddamn awful, like a damn dying whale,” Grantaire laughs loudly, “I’ve got to drive faster so we get to the cafe soon. Gotta shut you up.”

Enjolras doesn't reply at first, because he has snatched Grantaire's phone in the past five seconds and is now on the camera app, recording a video of his passionate singing which did _not_ sound like the song he's supposed to be singing at all. “Oh, shut up,” Enjolras rolls his blue, blue eyes as he finishes the video, “you know you love my voice.” 

"I'm going to post that, you know, you brought this upon yourself," he teases, and oh yes, Enjolras is right. He does - he loves his everything.

-

-

“This is the best fucking coffee I’ve had in my whole life,” Enjolras hums happily as he continues to sip on the so-called coffee in front of him.

“It’s not coffee, how many times do I have to tell you that?” Grantaire replies, snapping pictures of Enjolras.

“Oh my god, you better not post my face! I look disgusting.”

Grantaire was still happily snapping pictures when Enjolras’ face fell at the figure approaching them in the cafe - Montparnasse. Just his luck. Paris is such a huge city, and Montparnasse just  _ had  _ to go to the same cafe as they did. Ruining his morning.

“Good morning, Enj,” Montparnasse clasps Enjolras’ back. _What do you want?_ Enjolras frowns, shrugging the bony hand off his shoulder.

“Since when are you close enough with him to call him Enj,  _ Monty _ ?” Grantaire asks, obviously sensing Enjolras’ expression darken. Enjolras is silently grateful for that, as Montparnasse seems a little taken aback that it's not Enjolras who speaks up first.

“I thought Enjolras here was the one who doesn’t shut up, huh.”

“Montparnasse, what have I done this time?” Enjolras frowns, “Can’t you just leave us alone? We’re having breakfast here.”

“I can see that,” Montparnasse smirks, “Grantaire, huh, you’ve finally got the attention of your God of the Sun? If I didn't knew you, I'd have thought you were his puppy.”

_ The fuck?  _ Enjolras glares at Montparnasse before Grantaire even has the chance to reply. Montparnasse can antagonise him however he wants, he can talk shit about Enjolras however he wants, Enjolras doesn't care that much. But how the fuck does he have the audacity to talk down to Grantaire like this? Grantaire is his dear friend and he will not let this atrocity slip. “Look, I seriously don’t know what problem you have with me, but I'm just out having a meal with a _friend_ , can you not?”

“And I can't be here having breakfast? I have the freedom to -”

“You can, then go and eat, will you? Instead of standing in front of me and giving me shit, and giving Grantaire shit for doing  _ nothing _ ? You have a problem with me? Fine. But I'm not going to let you shit on my friend for nothing. Look, Montparnasse, you don't want to see me, and we don't want you here either. So please just get on with your breakfast, we're just finishing up our coffee and we're heading out.”

Montparnasse huffs, but struts away in his typical, prideful manner, “Enjoy your breakfast, and all those interviews you're having now? They're not going to change the results, you know.”

“Yeah, cause you're going to lose no matter what, you fucker,” Grantaire mutters under his breath, but Enjolras suspects that he is somewhat smiling. He isn't sure, though. He looks at Grantaire,  unimpressed but still unable to suppress his own smile forming. 

“You don't know that,” he sighs.

“Come on, I  _ know  _ it, and you do too. There's absolutely  _ no way  _ you're not winning it - honestly, I don't know how he has the face to come here and say this so confidently,” Grantaire states blandly as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Grantaire… isn't totally wrong; Enjolras knows that objectively, he's performed  _ a lot  _ better than Montparnasse this year. The previous years, it was pretty close between them, both individually and as a team, but this year? Enjolras broke records, got the World Cup and practically performed flawlessly. However, Enjolras dislikes arrogance with such a passion, he does not want to have anything to do with it. He is confident, he knows what he  _ can  _ do, he knows that he is  _ good _ , and he is proud of himself, but he wouldn’t make such a boasting claim so easily. However, when such praise comes from someone else (especially Grantaire, since he’s usually so hung up on making fun of Enjolras), it feels sweetly  _ sensational,  _ honestly - and Enjolras will do himself the favour and indulge in his bliss. He smiles at Grantaire warmly, hoping that he could convey his gratitude well enough. Judging from the beam of light that seems to break out on Grantaire’s face as this happens, he reckons Grantaire understands.

Perhaps it’s because how Montparnasse huffs bitterly when he leaves their table, Enjolras is in a particularly good mood today. Since there was a little time left before the interview actually starts, Enjolras even has the mood to have small talk with this one annoying girl on the street who only talks about how incredibly hot Enjolras is. (Grantaire snickers very hard. Enjolras glares daggers at him, but that seems to make him even more amused.) And if the interview that morning seems less annoying to him, well, he doesn’t know the reason at all.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just... pretend you didn't see that the pfps for the two multimedia inserts are different though they're both R's account hahaha, or that he changed his pfp in the middle.
> 
> There's not much new football stuff here, and most of the stuff are pretty much explained in the fic. Enjolras doesn't like Mont's playing style, but that doesn't mean that I'm as against it as he is. I enjoy a practical style more, dribbling and nice footwork; but some tricks are pretty pleasing to the eye usually to me. I do hate diving though, even if it's my team who does it. As always, kudos and comments feed me with joyyy <33
> 
> (I'm really angry that Henderson won the EPL player of the year over KDB rn >:( yeah Liv is the better team for sure this year but KDB was the SUPERIOR player in the EPL to me. 100%. van Dijk deserved it, Salah deserved it (when they won it), but KDB WAS JUST THE BEST THIS YEAR. Okay end of my rant, anyway, I just want to say that Mont here isn't actually... a bad person, you know? He's just kind of jealous of how Enjolras has it fortunate in his opinion. I personally don't think being privileged necessarily means you don't need to pay much effort but here Mont just kinda has a bad opinion on him bc he was at first, jealous. if you know what I mean. not that it's great, but yeah.)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cameras flash all around him, lighting up the Parisian night even further as Enjolras steps out of his car, arriving at the entrance of the Theatre du Châtelet. He smiles politely at everyone around him, nodding at the fans screaming at him as he answers a few brief questions from the swarm of reporters before entering the Theatre for the Ballon D’Or ceremony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone GUESS WHO IS UPDATING AFTER LIKE ONE WEEK ONLY ??? yeah it's me but also there's an overabundance of multimedia insert this chapter which was a pain in the ass to make, and a lil messy but I hope you can read it and you like it xx
> 
> again, no beta, all mistakes are mine!

Cameras flash all around him, lighting up the Parisian night even further as Enjolras steps out of his car, arriving at the entrance of the Theatre du Châtelet. He smiles politely at everyone around him, nodding at the fans screaming at him as he answers a few brief questions from the swarm of reporters before entering the Theatre for the Ballon D’Or ceremony.

_ “Enjolras, are you confident in winning the Ballon D’Or this year, after your amazing achievements in both Club and Nation?”  _

_ “What does it mean for you, being nominated for the honour alongside your best friend? Is there malicious competition between the two of you?”  _

Most of the questions are not anything he hasn't rehearsed again and again with Combeferre and Courfeyrac the night before in their hotel room (Well, Combeferre and his. Courfeyrac’s relationship with Jehan has progressed so smoothly that they share a room now, but Enjolras is grateful that even though Combeferre and Eponine’s relationship seem to be going well too, he hasn't abandoned Enjolras just yet) - so he just puts on his ever-charming grin and answers like how he's supposed to. He realises, confused, that he tends to stumble whenever Grantaire is mentioned ( _ “With various incidents that might have put a strain between you and Grantaire’s relationship, how do you feel being nominated alongside him in this prestigious ceremony? Do you think he deserves to be here?),  _ but he generally manages to answer the questions without seeming annoyed, not even a little bit, which is a first for him. 

Joining Combeferre on the red carpets in the theatre, they continue to smile at the cameras while engaging in a casual chat just like they're used to. Clicks sound all around them, as journalists are dying to catch the best pictures of the two best friends both included in the Top 3 contenders of the Ballon D’Or of 2018. Dressed smartly in a red suit, Enjolras’ famously favourite colour, his hair is let down, almost touching his shoulders, because first of all, he doesn't want to bother Combeferre in tying up his hair before the ceremony when he's busy sorting out his own looks; and second of all, he doesn't want his hairline to recede by the time he retires. While he has to put his hair up every match, he doesn't need that in ceremonies. Frankly, he likes his hair better down too. His naturally brown streaks are shown less when it's down, making him look even blonder. Without a doubt, pictures of him will be slapped across all kinds of fashion accounts on the internet tomorrow, but Enjolras really doesn’t care that much. He would’ve worn a simple button-up and jeans to this (plus a fluffy down jacket. It’s damn cold, Paris in December) if he wanted to, but Courfeyrac would actually strangle him if he did that. Courfeyrac is a self-proclaimed fashion expert, and Enjolras would give him that, to be fair. Most of his entries on the “best-dressed” list are put together by Courfeyrac, today is no exception. If Enjolras’ friends let him shop for his wardrobe completely on his own, the whole wardrobe would probably consist of plain t-shirts and button-ups and jeans and maybe a few sweatpants, complemented with logo t-shirts from charity events Enjolras participates in and his jerseys. Courfeyrac says that it’s a blessing how Enjolras has sponsors from some of the most fashionable brands in the world, sending him seasonal favourites which look “ _ unfairly amazing”  _ on Enjolras’ fashionable face. After his choice of a neon orange sweater and a green pair of cargo pants put him No.2 on the “Top 10 Fashion Disasters of Heartthrobs All Over the World” by Buzzfeed two years back, one of the  _ worst  _ so-called “News websites” of America, (which he’s sure that Grantaire bookmarked on his phone), both Courfeyrac and Combeferre have banned him from shopping on his own to his dismay. 

Eponine appears from behind the cameras. While she isn’t nominated for the Ballon D’Or Feminin this year, she is the captain of the women’s national football team, so she is invited to the ceremony. Combeferre’s eyes light up when he notices her, and Enjolras nudges Combeferre to go talk to her. Even now that they’ve gone official, they tend not to appear in public together in excess. On one hand, Combeferre doesn’t want to leave Enjolras alone in dealing with journalists (Enjolras complains.  _ What do you mean I’d end up on the front pages again? I don’t even act like a dick to journalists that much anymore! _ ), but more importantly, Eponine likes to appear in the media as Eponine Thenardier, footballer, rather than  _ girlfriend of Adrien Combeferre _ . While Enjolras is also glad that his best friend is beside him when he faces questions shot at him, his respect for Eponine increased tenfold when he heard the reason why she didn’t want to go to events as Combeferre’s date.  _ You sure?  _ Combeferre’s eyes are questioning but Enjolras assures him that it’ll be fine, since most of the cameras will probably stay on him.

With Combeferre left talking to Eponine, obviously lovestruck, Enjolras continues to make his way into the theatre, hoping to initiate conversations with other guests of the ceremony. He was halfway in a conversation with the German captain when he sees Grantaire.

And  _ holy shit, he looks good. _

Enjolras has never seen Grantaire in any formal clothing. The ceremonies of previous years, Grantaire didn’t attend, for he was neither nominated nor captain of his national team, and the team is used to attending dinners in smart casual rather than formal clothing usually. The Ballon D’Or is the first of the many individual prize ceremonies in this season, and Grantaire has obviously dressed up for this. His usually rather unruly curls are tamed tidily with gel, and while his wild looks give him a unique charm among the fans, tonight he looks so  _ professionally  _ charismatic. He has shaved a little, but a little stubble is left on his sharp jaw - he certainly knows how good it looks on him. His green velvet suit is tight-fit, highlighting his muscular torso and long legs, and  _ oh fuck, green is Grantaire’s colour _ . He has just arrived, smiling at the cameras slightly, looking slightly uncomfortable but polite while he’s answering the questions the journalists are asking him. Enjolras has come to the realization this season that, now that Grantaire is never drunk anymore in interviews, he seems quite shy when he is facing strangers’ questions. This comes as a surprise to Enjolras because he’d never really relate the word “shy” to Grantaire, seeing how  _ not shy  _ he is when he talks to Enjolras. In front of him, Grantaire has never really held back his opinions or taunts. He never seemed to care if his answers were “right” or not, and just mercilessly teased Enjolras. While Enjolras hated it for quite some time, hated how Grantaire riled him up, contradicted anything he said, he has realized recently that Grantaire never really means malice when it comes to his speeches. If anything, he’s thankful that Grantaire doesn’t hold back anything when they talk. It makes him feel as if Grantaire trusts him, which he doesn’t know when he earned, but is grateful for nonetheless. And, the way that he looks so flushed, so subdued when he’s talking to the journalists… he’s so cute.

_ Oh fuck. Fucking hell. No fucking way.  _ Enjolras freezes now, terrified for what he has just realized. The German captain seems to have noticed Enjolras staring at Grantaire, but thankfully, he doesn’t mention it. He just gracefully excuses himself, leaving Enjolras alone in his shock.

He has always  _ known  _ that Grantaire is handsome. Rich, chocolate brown hair, even curlier than his own, just shorter, lying just above his ears. His eyes are green, not shiny like Enjolras’, but they attract you through his glance in another way. Deep like the ocean, they invite you in, with glimpses of sparks only when he’s teasing (which makes Enjolras feel  _ so  _ lucky, because surely he’s the one who sees the sparkles in Grantaire’s eyes the most). His skin tone is a shade darker than Enjolras’ own owing to his Iberian blood, but that, along with his ever-present stubble, sometimes a little bit of beard, gives him more of a masculine charm. Almost always, Grantaire gives an unconscious smirk when he hears something amusing, and Enjolras has a fond smile on his face even when he’s just thinking about it. Plus, there’s a reason why Grantaire is included in the hottest XI of the World Cup, and top 100 hottest men in the world -  _ but,  _ Enjolras has never been actually attracted like that by Grantaire. Until now. Grantaire just looks so amazing, and Enjolras feels all fuzzy inside, it’s scary. He has never felt like this before, not even when he had his first sexual awakening with Constantin, and he is just so overwhelmed that he needs to run away.

“Apollo?” he hears.  _ Oh my god shit fuck it’s Grantaire and I don’t know what I’m going to say. _

“Hey Grantaire,” he chokes out. At least he doesn’t sound any different than normal - his extended training in public speaking back when he was still in school really paid off.

“You just zoned out there, are you feeling okay?” Grantaire asks, concern etched in his frown. He’s so caring too, Enjolras provides in his mind, now that he’s realized how attractive he thinks Grantaire is, everything he does sends butterflies in Enjolras’ stomach, and he isn’t sure if he likes it.

“No, I’m fine, just had... something on my mind.”

“Are you... nervous about what's gonna happen? We told you, Enj, we’ll be here no matter what. It’ll go just fine, trust me.”

“Not particularly,” he isn’t lying. Enjolras isn’t really nervous about the results. Nor the coming out he has planned. He’s a little anxious, excited, but not nervous. “The results are in anyway. There’s nothing to do but wait.”

They walk towards their assigned seats together, and suddenly Enjolras realizes that they are sitting in the front row. Just two seats across. Usually, the nominees sit with their partners or families, but Enjolras doesn’t have any brought with him, nor does Combeferre, so he’s sitting with Combeferre on his left and the ever-pretentious Montparnasse  _ plus  _ that bitch of a girlfriend who is the same person who tried to force alcohol on Enjolras two years ago in an afterparty on his right. Sometimes, he still thinks back to all of those interviews where Montparnasse smugly implies that he’s “collectively recognised” every chance possible. Enjolras doesn’t care about the prize money or the prize itself, but losing to Montparnasse is  _ not  _ a great feeling, and he’d do anything to. Not to blow his own horn, but logically speaking, he’s pretty confident that he’ll score higher this year.

While Montparnasse is almost asleep at the president’s speech, Enjolras is attentive as can be as the camera approaches him. Enjolras is a speaker himself, so he knows how important and empowering it is for the audience to give the speaker at least some kind of attention. Yes, the speech is  _ again  _ about how FIFA congratulates all the nominees for their hard work, and how perseverance is vital in reaching new heights, but it  _ is  _ true. Plus, all of the ceremony today is going to be broadcasted live all over the world and he’d make the best role model to all the children by being attentive to the speaker.

“In two hours you would lose the respect of thousands of Christian mums all over the world, how do you feel about it?” Combeferre asks quietly when the cameras are away, imitating the attitude of a reporter.

“Shut up,” Enjolras laughs, then whispers, “I’m actually pretty looking forward to it. Imagine the horror of those bigots.”

“The perfect golden boy of France is a  _ sinner _ !” Combeferre mocks a gasp, and they share a laugh silently. The camera catches them again, Enjolras notices, the much loved friendship displayed in front of the world.

Montparnasse is still asleep to his right, his girlfriend staring in panic; and further to the right, Grantaire is most evidently staring at Enjolras. When their eyes meet, Grantaire hurriedly looks away. Enjolras is confused, but he is too busy dealing with the fiasco that is going crazy in his head right now. Now that Enjolras has really  _ seen  _ Grantaire in a different light, his brain cannot stop thinking about Grantaire. Grantaire’s smile, Grantaire’s jokes, Grantaire’s goal kicks, Grantaire’s  _ hands _ … and isn’t this the worst time for the revelation - right after the biggest award show of the year? In front of the whole world during a  _ livestream  _ watched by millions? Enjolras tries his hardest to keep his signature smile, and he sure is glad that years of being in the spotlight and the  _ intensive  _ media presence is helping him keep his cool. He continues with his small talk with Combeferre, maintaining his easy expression, though his best friend seems to have realised something strange going on in him, eyeing him,  _ is everything okay?  _

Enjolras knows that Combeferre is thinking about something else, thinking that he’s afraid of what’s to come, the confession. He doesn’t have the time, it is not the right place to correct him - he will consult his trusty best friends for their input later.  _ It’s fine,  _ Enjolras nods, and he is glad that Combeferre knows him so well that it needs not be spoken. As he turns his head towards the stage, the first award presenter is already up onstage, ready to present the Puskas Award. The three final contenders start reeling on the projector, and Enjolras’ heartbeat does start to pick up, no matter how lightly he sees these awards.

-

Enjolras’ second goal versus Italy starts replaying again on the projector as the first nominated goal, and Grantaire swears he could close his eyes and picture it, pixel by pixel, but just hearing the passionate commentary. 

The first time Grantaire saw this goal was obviously on the pitch that day as he looked on from his goal post, and while his focus was totally on glorious Enjolras, he frankly was still sulking too much to actually take in the beauty of the goal. After the match, he’s replayed that goal way too many times, taking in the determined eyes Enjolras has on the net and his feet dancing lightly as the ball moves under his control, skipping away from opponents starting from the midline. And the way that Enjolras abruptly stops abruptly, sending the centre-back down on his own feet, slotting the goal into the back of the net in such a calm demeanor. The goalkeeper really stood no chance, Grantaire doesn’t blame him. 

“And the French captain strikes again, oh, what a  _ wonder goal!  _ Italy’s dreams have basically officially ended, and who else but Le Petit Prince himself - Julien Enjolras! He closes the lid of the game - France, champions again after 20 years!”

Grantaire’s favourite part of the goal is most definitely Enjolras’ celebration. Through the four years of them knowing each other, Grantaire has never seen Enjolras’ passion and happiness weave together so well and so raw. Sure, he's seen him  _ passionate _ , right as he yells at Grantaire, sure, he's seen him happy, whenever a match goes exceptionally well and he has this tight but sparkling smile on his face, and now he's even seen Enjolras being all dopey and cute in their hangouts, but never does Enjolras celebrate as wildly as he did. He sprints towards the corner, where the camera is, hands clutching at the French badge on his jersey, almost frantic, kissing it a few times,  _ very  _ strongly, as his teammates pile up on him from the back, crushing him in screams and hugs. “ _ Vive la France!”  _ he shouts into the camera, eyes crinkling with utter joy and sheer excitement, and he starts yelling the lyrics to  _ La Marseillaise  _ on the top of his lungs.  _ “Le jour de gloire est arrivé!”  _

He steals a glance towards Enjolras and he is biting his lips slightly, whispering to Combeferre, probably half in shyness of watching his own goal and half in nervousness. Montparnasse’s goal now begins to play, as Grantaire feels the said guy sitting near him sitting straighter, smiling smugly, pointing towards the screen and prodding his girlfriend.  _ Shameless _ , Grantaire thinks, yeah, Montparnasse’s goal is very amazing and quite rare too, objectively, a back heel scorpion goal against Chelsea, but Grantaire  _ is  _ inherently and massively biased against the ray of sunlight that is Enjolras, who, by the way, looks absolutely stunning tonight with his very red suit that fit him  _ way too well,  _ and his  _ hair  _ that's styled so effortlessly, it gives him a fucking halo - he literally radiates a warm, angelic aura, which he always has, but even more so tonight, making Grantaire uncontrollably blushing whenever he looks at him, even worse when Enjolras, horrifyingly, catches him doing it, which has happened six times already. 

-

Enjolras claps politely as Montparnasse skips upstage to collect his Puskas. 

He tries  _ very  _ hard not to roll his eyes when Montparnasse winks at him as he struts up the stairs,  _ I told you  _ evident in his unspoken message. As the goals were playing on screen, Montparnasse turned to him and whispered, “ _ Don’t ever think you are going to win this over me,”  _ which to that Enjolras just blatantly ignored, only gave him a chuckle. The fact is, Montparnasse thinks he knows him so well, he thinks he gets to Enjolras with his taunts, but Enjolras genuinely doesn’t play for the awards. The awards, yeah, they feel great, but they are just specks of extra decor on the  _ main  _ act, which is just enjoying football and putting on the best you could every single week for the fans. Montparnasse continuing this attitude only bothers Enjolras with the arrogance, and he tunes Montparnasse’s surely terribly speech out as he opens his mouth.

Grantaire slips into Montparnasse’s seat right next to Enjolras, ignoring the disdainful groan from Montparnasse’s girlfriend.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks, voice a little clipped but unable to hide the slight fondness that probably appears as an easy happiness to anyone but himself.

Grantaire shrugs. “Montparnasse can take my seat later,” he says, and moans, “it’s unfair how you can sit with Ferre and I’m just stuck on the edge of the aisle with  _ her _ ,” he makes sure to mouth the last  _ her,  _ and Enjolras’ heart beats like thundering hooves, honestly. 

Enjolras chuckles lowly as Montparnasse goes on with his speech, he hears his name being mentioned, he thinks, but he doesn’t really care right now. “We’re not chatting  _ that  _ much anyway,” he says, “it’s an award show - gotta respect the occasion.”

“Of course,  _ perfect golden boy _ ,” Grantaire laughs, but continues with a dramatic feigned whisper, “you should’ve won the Puskas. They’re giving him this because it’s a consolation prize for losing the actual Ballon D’Or.”

Enjolras smiles fondly despite the silliness, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, alright?”

To his other side, he feels Combeferre’s weirdly suspicious glare landing on him as he smiles at the floor, Grantaire muttering echoes of Montparnasse’s speech under his breath. He looks up at Combeferre,  _ later,  _ Enjolras supplies.

-

The World XI comes first, then The World’s Best Goalkeeper award, then the Ballon D’Or comes last. The World XI, for Enjolras, goes on without a hitch, everyone in the lineup as expected, just standing together onstage, flashing a smile as cameras snap from downstage and also a selfie from the presenter. The World’s Best Goalkeeper though, Enjolras  _ knows  _ it’s in Grantaire’s bag, but he could feel Grantaire shifting nervously beside him. He puts a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, and his mind suddenly supplies him that  _ all these will probably break the internet,  _ and while this brings his heartbeat way faster again, he really couldn't care less. The thought of Grantaire feeling uncomfortable, anxious, somehow powers him to  _ do something  _ immediately. Grantaire calms under Enjolras’ touch right away, smiling to himself, and he smiles contentedly at the desired effect. He looks at Enjolras, mouth open to say something. “You're gonna do this,” Enjolras said, and right at that moment, Grantaire’s name is announced from onstage.

Combeferre hugs Grantaire first, a firm clasp on the back, “Great job, R,” he says, then Enjolras is up next. The height difference between them makes Enjolras’s face crash right into Grantaire’s hair, and he makes sure not to sink too deep into the embrace so that it messes up his hair. Grantaire hugs him tightly, and Enjolras relishes in Grantaire’s cologne. He's ashamed, but he cannot help himself now that he's come to his own revelation. “Proud of you,” he says, flashing a grin towards Grantaire. 

Grantaire smiles so ardently at the trophy in his hands. Enjolras knows that Grantaire must be so happy, and he cannot explain how joyful he himself is, for the dark-haired mess of a man onstage. Who is he kidding? He now knows very well why Grantaire’s happiness makes himself so happy, but he decides to ignore it for now. From the stage, Grantaire inhales, and starts, “Uh, hey, I'm Michel Grantaire from Paris Les Amis, wait, that’s not needed. You all know this already - oh my God, I am really terrible at this. Enjolras,” he looks directly at Enjolras now, “Come rescue me with your superpower in speaking. How do you do this?”

Enjolras shakes his head dramatically, raises a thumb to Grantaire. His smile reaches his eyes now, crinkling at the edges. He laughs soundly with the whole audience, and Grantaire’s smile visibly grows easier as he takes in the response.

“I  _ really  _ prepared for this,” he says, “but I’m forgetting everything now and ugh. I’m just going to wing it and say what’s on my mind.” 

Grantaire stumbles quite a bit through his speech, talking about his struggles, detailing how important it is to believe in yourself and work hard because opportunities are left for those who are prepared. He’s not a very naturally confident speaker, not like Enjolras, but it feels genuine, what he says. He makes jokes, he hesitates, he self-depreciates… the whole speech just screams  _ Grantaire  _ that you know it comes from his heart. Enjolras guesses,  _ no,  _ Enjolras  _ knows,  _ because he feels it - that is part of Grantaire’s charm. What makes him so different from all the others. It’s just him, as if talking to friends instead of on the biggest stage of football. When Grantaire talks about how he didn’t believe in his abilities, or talents, “When I saw the newspaper articles on me, saying that, Les Amis’ goalkeeper could really be the next big thing, saying that I’ve got huge potential that I can show the world if I work hard - I just thought it was plain bulls- plain bull. You know what I mean. I just, I used to think there’s no chance for me to make it big, to make the people who I care about  _ proud  _ of me. I thought I was doomed to be a disappointment.”

At this point, Enjolras feels a pang of guilt shoot through him. He thought what he did, how he treated Grantaire was justified, he still thinks so somewhat - if Grantaire did the same now, drunk on the pitch, he’d act the same as he did. However, there  _ were  _ many times where his temper was unjustified, way too overboard. There were so many times when Enjolras put the blame on Grantaire publicly when the whole team was responsible for what happened, and Enjolras grimaces at his immaturity back then. To hear how much he’d torn Grantaire down, to hear how much he’d hurt Grantaire from his own words really hits him right at the heart. He didn’t understand Grantaire, he didn’t understand emotions, he didn’t understand the way to treat others thoroughly. It isn’t an excuse, but rather than dwelling on the past, Enjolras is more glad that they’re past that now. 

“I mean, I’m kind of a sh- ahem, sorry, bad role model, this literally proves the point - look at the articles on me, they’re, spoiler alert, kind of all over the place and not very great. So kids, just don’t get into alcohol and don’t slack. You think it’s so fun, maybe you think it’s cool, but it  _ really  _ doesn’t look good on you and it makes the people you care about angry.”

Enjolras feels all eyes on him, but they all laugh good-naturedly. If this was four months ago, Enjolras would’ve been seething, Grantaire joking about The (very grave) Incident, but he isn’t complaining about the change.

“At last,” Grantaire starts again, more confident now, “I just want to thank my friends for being there all the time, for watching me grow into a better person. They’ve been accepting, forgiving, and they’ve truly changed me. Two of them are seated on the front row today, and just - thank you so much, I love you. So much.” 

He swears he feels a strike of lightning pass through the two of them, but  _ gosh.  _ Enjolras just could not stop grinning as the crowd erupts in applause again. When Grantaire sits back down in the seat (Montparnasse took the seat originally belonging to Grantaire, so Grantaire sits next to Enjolras now. Props to Montparnasse for that, Enjolras thinks), Enjolras smiles at him, “You did amazing up there.”

“Don’t flatter me, you don’t have to lie,” Grantaire mutters, but his face genuinely  _ lights up  _ and that just makes Enjolras smile even harder. He turns back towards the stage, and he hears Combeferre’s smug voice from his side, “You’ve got  _ a lot  _ of explaining to do.”

He elbows Combeferre.

-

Grantaire cradles the trophy in his hands as the presenter now introduces the three finalists for the Ballon D’Or - not that he really has to listen, because firstly, he literally knows all three of them, and  _ especially  _ Enjolras, whom he swears he can recite the Wikipedia article about; and secondly, as much as he loves Combeferre, bless him, he’s an amazing (albeit scary) guy, Enjolras is going to win the Ballon D’Or and he’s ready to focus and take in the golden, soon to be victorious aura of his sacred Apollo. 

When Enjolras’ name got announced (surprise, surprise), he hears Montparnasse huff angrily from beside him, which brings him  _ this close  _ to laughing, because  _ oh my God, this bitch genuinely thought he had a shot,  _ but he doesn’t want to be livestreamed being a dick, so he stifles the chuckle. He looks at Enjolras, who  _ actually  _ looks a little surprised, eyebrows up, smiling brightly as he stands up, doing his handshake with Combeferre that according to one of his interviews, has been established since the first week they met. He then turns to Grantaire, trying to bite back his smile, and Grantaire just… stops thinking for a second. “Told you,” he teases, knowing that the pride in his voice will not go unnoticed. They enter their second embrace of the night, and Grantaire has to repel the desire to run his hands through the perfect golden hair. He pats Enjolras’ shoulders fondly, and pushes him slightly as he walks onstage gracefully.

“By now you all know the story of how I got into football,” he starts, and  _ my God.  _ The moment he starts talking, the room actually  _ silences.  _ Grantaire thinks, Enjolras’ voice, his words, his charm - it’s just so captivating. It reels you in, it forces you to look at him, it makes you  _ listen  _ to every word he says. He goes on, telling everyone that it’s pointless talking about his “footballing achievements or whatever” in his speech, because it “doesn’t count  _ at all  _ compared to the hardships people are enduring all over the world, and the things  _ they  _ achieve, powering through life in dark times”, is much more commendable. 

(Fuck, it pains Grantaire hearing someone brush off Enjolras’ football so casually, even if it’s Enjolras himself.)

He then thanks his coaches, teammates, family, “Ferre, my best companion, the ice to my fire, the person who pins me down, keeps me sane,” he says, “You read my mind on and off the pitch, and I don’t know how you managed to deal with all my outbursts throughout the years. I know I’m hard to deal with - thank you so much.” Combeferre blows a kiss onstage, earning the laughs of the whole hall and “awww”s from the audience. 

“Courf, you’ve been there since the start, you’ve witnessed my first game, you’ve seen me literally grown from this small,” he gestures to quantify just how short he was (and Grantaire would’ve killed to see it, it would’ve been absolutely precious), “to this tall now. Thank you for providing my life with happiness, with fun and joy, and I’m so grateful for a lifelong best friend like you.” Grantaire cannot see Courfeyrac, for he is sitting somewhere at the back, but he’s sure Courfeyrac is probably near tears right now, or trying his best not to shout “I love you” back.

“R, Grantaire,” he starts, and Grantaire freezes. Because firstly,  _ Enjolras called him R.  _ That’s the first time he’s called him that, and secondly, Grantaire knows they’re much closer now than before, but for him to directly address Grantaire, to give him a tribute in his speech? This is nothing he has expected. “Many people may be surprised by how far we’ve come in the course of three months, but you are truly one of my dearest friends. You’ve made me laugh, you’ve helped me in the littlest things in life, and really, you deserve every inch of recognition you’re getting now. I don’t know why we wasted so much time, I don’t know why  _ I  _ wasted so much time, and sometimes I regret some of the things I’ve done in the past, but I wouldn’t change a thing because look where we are now. Thank you for all the moments we’ve shared.”

Grantaire’s face is tinted borderline scarlet now, for all the emotions that are dumped on him. He could hear his own heart beating soundly against his ribs, shaking his whole torso. He’s shocked at Enjolras’ ode, and he’s just filled with  _ joy  _ in his whole body. Enjolras’ recognition ranks higher than any kind of award, and while Enjolras has let it slip many times in post-match interviews that he’s somewhat satisfied with Grantaire, or even happy with his performances. He’s also made it clear that they’re friends now, with interactions online, but to hear the man of his dreams say such wonderful things about Grantaire? It just… there are no words to describe it. He puts a hand on his chest, where his heart is to express his gratitude and love, silently hoping that Enjolras doesn’t catch on to the latter. 

(Combeferre leans in, whistling at Grantaire. He tries to glare, but fails.)

He then shifts to talking about the importance of equality, which gets Grantaire sitting straighter. Not to be biased, but as much as he loves hearing his Apollo revel about his passions, the injustice in the world, he loves hearing the more heartfelt parts of Enjolras’ speeches, the parts where he pours his emotions in. Not (only) because of his cynical nature - fundamentally not allowing himself to believe that justice could be reached, but mostly because when Enjolras talks about his feelings, he is  _ human _ . He’s like a superhero on the pitch, a God when he takes pictures, but when he smiles, sighs, chuckles, it makes him even more endearing. Not that Grantaire doesn’t listen when Enjolras talks of justice - he  _ always  _ listens, but this time round, even more so, because he knows what’s going to come. 

Enjolras goes on about the injustice towards the poor, towards the disabled - and he has the whole hall encaptured, taking in every passionate word he speaks. Then he moves on to homophobia - “I believe it’s important for us, as public figures, to raise awareness,” he says, and Grantaire sits up straighter. He looks across towards Combeferre, and they share a glance of both anticipation and pride. He then looks straight at Enjolras, who is beginning to straighten himself up, obviously to prepare the huge message that he’s going to drop onto the world. 

“France is a relatively progressive country,” Enjolras goes on, “but many people are still afraid of being who they really are, in public, because homophobia is so internalised. Many people are still inherently afraid that they’ll be seen differently. I was one of those people.”

He hears the whole hall gasp. 

“I see you’ve gotten my message pretty well, but I will make it clearer for you. Yes, I  _ am  _ gay. I am attracted to men, and I am not afraid anymore. To tell you. I’m proud of who I am, and I believe that my sexuality does not change my ability or attitude in football, or anything else.”

“I hope you feel the same,” Enjolras says, a plea to the public, “I hope this will awaken some of you, especially in the footballing sector, to take off the tinted glasses that are still on, even if you might think you’ve gotten rid of them. We exist, and we are just as worthy, just like any other person - we just  _ like _ different people. Thank you.”

The hall is stunned to absolute silence, but Combeferre starts a single clap, and the whole audience erupts in thundering applause. Enjolras walks back down the stairs, shoulders relaxed, smile on his face.

“You did it,” Grantaire tells him.

“Yeah, I did,” he replies.

-

-

-

Enjolras could feel his heartbeat ease as he says it.  _ I’m gay,  _ he thinks,  _ it’s out now. The world knows.  _ He thought he’d be terrified, he  _ was  _ terrified, but now he just feels… at ease. Proud. Relieved. The world knows, and he could now just hope people take it well. If they don’t… well, a shame, but that’s their problem. He hasn’t wronged anyone.

He locks eyes with Combeferre, who smiles at him, glint in his eyes, nodding at him silently.

He looks past the first three rows to find Courfeyrac, who blows a hundred kisses at him.

His sight lands on Grantaire, who is glancing right up at him, and he swears that’s pure admiration from his eyes.

Then he hears it - the applause that roars through the arena. There are a few cheers here and there. He bows and walks back down.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading <3 football glossary is getting shorter bc most words i've already used before.
> 
> Yashin trophy in this chapter = best goalkeeper trophy, named after Russian legend Lev Yashin.
> 
> join me in being super proud of enjolras !! kudos and comments are MORE than welcome, please YELL. i'm heading out, gonna go watch the FA cup finals!
> 
> stay safe, wear a mask x


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Enjolras!” Grantaire hears the reporter to the left asking, and as Enjolras turns, his hair strikes right into Grantaire’s face. It smells like citrus, and Grantaire mentally beats himself for being a creep (once again). 
> 
> Grantaire was 100% ready to just head inside the hospital first, box of Christmas presents in his arms to wait for Enjolras to finish his interviews, but apparently he was wrong. Enjolras tugs at his arm, signalling him to stay by his side during the interview. He of course does what he’s told, because he’s always been physically unable to reject Enjolras.
> 
> “Third Christmas Charity Train for you, Enjolras, how do you feel about it?”
> 
> “Great, to be honest,” Enjolras smiles, “I’m very happy how the event has grown. This year, we have over a hundred institutions working together all around France, and we have players from all Ligue 1 teams participating, which proves the fact that helping others can bring otherwise rivals together. Christmas is really for giving back to the community, and spreading love and joy to those around you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello people !! I know I didn't update last week but I'm getting really busy with school... but I will still work hard on this I promise <3 anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter, just wanted to write some cute shit hehe
> 
> again, all mistakes are mine. might still have used my chinese-thinking brain while writing english, hopefully that didn't happen though x

Enjolras is currently situated in his bed among a galore of blankets, Combeferre and Courfeyrac seated right across, against his headboard, as if he was in a meeting with his discipline councillors back in his days in high school.

Combeferre looks at him expectantly, but Courfeyrac just looks half excited and half confused - Combeferre sent a message to the Triumvirate group text the morning after the ceremony, saying “Enjolras’ house, tonight 7:30” without any details. Enjolras, however, knows  _ exactly  _ what’s up - Combeferre knows him like the back of his hand, plus he’s the most observant person Enjolras has ever met.

“So, Enj,” Combeferre begins, “You’ve got something to tell us?”

Enjolras huffs. He doesn’t like to be treated like a misbehaving child, but both of his best friends are  _ way  _ better than him in dealing with feelings and truth to be told, his revelation has kept him up for the whole night, shifting uncomfortably in bed because whenever he closed his eyes, all he could think about was Grantaire. His eyes, which were like a deep shade of jade rather than shiny emerald, his smile, which lights up Enjolras’ world, just, his everything. And he’d be happy to at least, talk to someone about this, and who better than his two best friends?

“Maybe,” he mutters under his breath.

“Come on,” Courfeyrac nudges, “I honestly have no idea what’s up. Are you in trouble again? I don’t see anything on-”

“No, no! I’m not in trouble! It’s just that…”

He looks straight at Combeferre,  _ come on, you know what I’m going to say. Help me!  _ But Combeferre doesn’t even flinch. He’s really on his own.

“I think I  _ like  _ Grantaire,” he whispers, voice getting smaller as the sentence goes on.

He looks up from his red, white and blue (Vive la France!) bedsheet, and sees Combeferre pursing his lips, obviously trying very hard not to laugh, and Courfeyrac literally has his fist on his mouth, face twisted in laughter, just trying hard not to chuckle  _ out loud _ . He frowns.

“Say that again?” Courfeyrac wheezes between breaths.

“I’m being serious,” Enjolras says, louder now. Cat’s out of the bag. “I like Grantaire. Not just as friends.”  _ What's so funny about it?  _

“That’s my baby boy!” Courfeyrac exclaims, throwing his whole torso onto Enjolras, tackling him onto his king-sized bed, “I’m so proud of you - Ferre, he figured it out,  _ he figured it out by himself!” _

“Wh- what?” Enjolras asks, voice clipped as he’s trapped under the 180cm that is Courfeyrac. “What do you mean - I figured it out?”

“Oh, Enjolras,” Combeferre sighs sympathetically, but he isn’t doing a good job masking his smirk, “We already know. We aren’t blind. You’ve liked Grantaire for quite some time now, you just didn’t notice. By the way, Courf, 50 euros. 2018 hasn't ended yet.”

“Fuck,” Courfeyrac sighs, “50 euros is nothing on my boy’s love life though,” he squishes Enjolras very red cheeks.  _ They bet on me!  _ Enjolras could feel his whole face turn down.

“Am I… really obvious?” Enjolras is positively panicked now. He didn’t even know himself that he liked _liked_ Grantaire, not before yesterday night, and somehow both of his friends already know, for quite some time. Yes, he’ll give it, Combeferre and Courfeyrac know him better than he knows himself, but the way they put it - makes it seems like it's a known fact already that he's somehow missed out on.  _ Why didn't you tell me earlier?  _ He suggested bitterly in his head, but really, if they would've told him that “Oh, you know what, Enjolras? You have a crush on a Grantaire!” before yesterday, he would've looked at them like they were crazy. He's not even bothered about  _ that,  _ he's most afraid that he's been so obvious that Grantaire knows. God, he must think that Enjolras is a huge creep, suddenly becoming friends with him and asking him on lunches,  _ oh my God, were they dates?  _ He is horrified now.

“Hey, hey,” Combeferre offers, “If it makes you feel any better, R definitely doesn't know. We know, most of the team has realised, take a look at Tumblr and you'll see many people suspecting, but R doesn't even suspect.”

“Good,” Enjolras says, “I've already ruined everything between us, right? With all the things that have happened before, there's no  _ goddamn  _ way he'd like me back,” he groans into his bedsheet.

He doesn't see his two friends bury their heads into their palms, silently grieving at the stupid mess that is Enjolras, for such a smart person, he could be so dumb.

“Look, I'm going to pretend that I didn't hear what you just said,” Courfeyrac lets out a few moments later. 

Enjolras looks up, absolutely confused.

“Nevermind us,” Combeferre, ever the logical one, says. “We are happy for you finally coming to terms with your feelings, so let's just take this from here.”

“I'm still a little confused about how I feel, honestly,” Enjolras shrugs, “I know I like him, but I've… never felt this way towards anyone before.”

“Oh my gosh, our boy is really  _ in love,”  _ Courfeyrac breathes out.

“You two are acting like smug parents right now and I don't like it,” Enjolras huffs half-heartedly. 

“Come on, let's cut him some slack,” Combeferre laughs, “I'm sure this pile of emotions is exhausting our baby Enjy.”

“Not you too,” Enjolras groans, and cringes at the nickname Combeferre is using - he thinks it sounds  _ so  _ childish, and it sounds like he's still a three-year-old toddler when someone calls him that. 

“Really, though, wanna talk about it?” Courfeyrac’s voice still isn't void of smugness, Enjolras doubts it ever will be, but it's evident that he's sincerely wanting Enjolras to talk about his (scary) feelings. Combeferre nods, indicating that yes, they actually want to hear about it, and truth to be told, Enjolras does want to let his friends know about it. They might be able to help him be more clear about these foreign feelings. 

“He just, he's so kind… and he always says that he doesn't care about anything, he doesn't believe in anything, right? It's a load of bullshit, he cares so much. He doesn't believe in a lot, not at all, but he cares about his friends so much. Whenever he talks about the team, he just - his has this smile on his face, you know? He loves his friends so much. He’s so caring, so funny, and  _ so  _ talented… I’ve seen him draw so many times, and they’re just. They should be in museums.  _ And  _ his suit in the ceremony. He’s so handsome, I just - fuck, I’m so fucked,” he groans.

“You’ve really got it bad, huh?” 

“Should I make a move?” he asks carefully. 

Combeferre tugs at Enjolras so he sits right between himself and Courfeyrac. “It depends on you,” he says, “We won’t tell you to make a move or not, because at the end of the day, it’s your love life. But whatever you decide, we’ll be here to support.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, feeling like they’re 16 again, sitting in bed talking about their love issues. Except they’re now twenty-something and established in their careers already, but this, a night in talking with his best friends, still feels just as great. “I think I’ll just let this sit for a while, and see if I do anything if I find that I might actually have a chance.”

He faintly hears Courfeyrac bark out a laugh, but he lets it slip.

-

The annual Christmas Charity Train that Enjolras started three years ago has built itself up from a small scale charity event that involved one hospital in Paris to a nation-wide event that involves dozens of non-profit organisations across the country, not only hospitals, but also food banks, homeless shelters and correction centres. Grantaire had been sceptical (surprise!) when Enjolras first started it, laughing, “You  _ really  _ think this is going to work in the long-term?”, but he’d been very wrong in questioning it, because it’s working very well, growing larger every year. Not only footballers of various teams in the Ligue 1 join in now, but even celebrities in different fields such as singers and actors, or even politicians that Enjolras hates a little less have also joined in. Despite his vocal doubts though, Grantaire has never been able to stay away from the Charity Train itself, offering his help in whatever he’s assigned to, wherever he’s assigned to. Usually, he’s just there, cooking up some food, chatting with some people, hauling some boxes up the stairs. Yeah, he takes quite a lot of pleasure in helping those in need, some even reminding himself of his own terrible childhood, but he’s mostly just there because his Apollo is there. This year though, Enjolras asked him if he could draw up some posters for the Train itself and Christmas cards for the people they’re serving, which is  _ exactly  _ Grantaire’s expertise outside of football, and Enjolras has no idea how happy it makes him to know that his love for art is remembered.

Half of the Les Amis team, which includes himself and Enjolras (“Why isn’t Ferre with us?” Grantaire had asked when the list was given out, and Enjolras told him that because himself and Combeferre knows about the Train the most, they have to be separated to run things in different locations), is assigned to a Children’s hospital near the Les Amis stadium in Paris this year, and Grantaire is really happy about it because as much as he likes chopping up lettuce for the food bank, he enjoys making sick children happy a lot more. As they get out of the tour bus with all the resources they’ve brought, a group of reporters are already waiting in front of the bus, snapping pictures of the team and asking simple questions before they actually enter the hospital. He notices Enjorlas beside him, tensing up the tiniest bit.

(“Ugh,” Enjolras said as the bus turned the corner approaching the hospital, “I can see the reporters.”

“They aren’t going to ask you any shitty questions though,” Grantaire shrugs - all these reporters are just going to take some nice pictures, ask them why they’re so inclined to do all these charity events, to what Enjolras will just reply with a diplomatic answer, and ta-da, tomorrow they’ll all be plastered onto the news,  _ Julien Enjolras and Co. Give Back to the Community,  _ and everyone will be happy.

“They make all these seem like an act, you get what I mean?” he turns to Grantaire, “I started this to actually help people, not for the tabloids to post my face on the newspaper and make me look like a philanthropist.”

Grantaire  _ really  _ had fallen in love with the most righteous, pure-hearted, perfect angel.)

“Enjolras!” Grantaire hears the reporter to the left asking, and as Enjolras turns, his hair strikes right into Grantaire’s face. It smells like citrus, and Grantaire mentally beats himself for being a creep (once again). 

Grantaire was 100% ready to just head inside the hospital first, box of Christmas presents in his arms to wait for Enjolras to finish his interviews, but apparently he was wrong. Enjolras tugs at his arm, signalling him to stay by his side during the interview. He of course does what he’s told, because he’s always been physically unable to reject Enjolras.

“Third Christmas Charity Train for you, Enjolras, how do you feel about it?”

“Great, to be honest,” Enjolras smiles, “I’m very happy how the event has grown. This year, we have over a hundred institutions working together all around France, and we have players from all Ligue 1 teams participating, which proves the fact that helping others can bring otherwise rivals together. Christmas is really for giving back to the community, and spreading love and joy to those around you.”

“Instead of pouring your money to the trap of capitalism,” Grantaire leans down a little and whispers into Enjolras’ ear, to which Enjolras provides a light chuckle.

“Speaking of those around you, your budding friendship with Grantaire has been the centre of much gossip these few months. You’ve got him right beside you today - has he played a big part in the Charity Train today?”

“No - I’m just -” Grantaire is ready to start talking, but is interrupted by a joyful Enjolras. 

“You see all the posters and promotional posts we’ve posted online? They’re all designed and drawn by Grantaire. He’s really talented.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire smiles shyly - that is all he could do right now, trying to contain himself so he looks less like a tomato, more like the fun-loving charmer he’s mostly known as, but there’s only so much he could do when he receives such a compliment from the specimen of a man beside him.

“I’m sorry, but we’ve really got to go in and start the day, we’ll talk later,” Enjolras politely nods at the reporters, then hurriedly heads in, Grantaire right beside him. Even with the boxes in his arms, and his legs quite obviously shorter than Grantaire, who’s literally been a giant all his life, he strides just as quick as Grantaire does.

“Finally got rid of them,” Enjolras whispers cheekily into Grantaire’s ear.

-

His favourite place to go for service visits is for sure children’s hospitals, Enjolras thinks to himself, he seriously  _ loves  _ kids and while it’s heartbreaking to see them suffer through so much pain, it gives him so much warmth to see just a few hours spent with these kids can help them live a little happier and easier. It’s often so easy to make them smile, which makes him feel so much more grateful for all the things he’s had the luxury to enjoy throughout his whole life, not only the money, but also just good health all around. 

He’s planning to spend as much time as he could beside Grantaire in the visit - it still feels strange, and kind of pathetic of himself to feel as if he’s a high school student gone on his crush, but he can’t help it, and both Combeferre and Courfeyrac agreed that it’d be a good idea for him to try and spend more time with Grantaire whenever he could both to make more sense of his feelings and to make himself happier, especially for how the season is going now. Not very well, he will provide. It started off perfectly, but these two or three previous weeks, they’ve been drawing, losing, even the wins seem kind of off. They just weren’t performing well, which makes Enjolras grumpier than usual. He’s still taking as many shots as he can every match, but it just - doesn't go the way he wants it to. They aren't powerful enough, they don't curl enough, they just aren't… there. 

They spent the whole morning walking through wards and rooms, paying visits to children of all ages and conditions, personalities and faces. They even encountered one big fan of Patron Minette, who decided that it was fun to chant Montparnasse’s name as Enjolras entered the room, but he wasn’t that bothered by the girl’s actions, to his own surprise. He thinks that it’s owing to both his love for children and his more tamed temper these days. 

However, the most memorable patient of the day is the one that was right before lunch. The room that they visited lies a little boy named Marcel, who is there because of a rare form of anemia. He's barely four, but the doctor had told them that he's spent more than two years in and out of the hospital. Enjolras couldn’t help but clutch the teddy bear in his arms a little harder when the doctor told them about how Marcel has to endure blood transfusions every other day, often unable to eat or drink because he is so weak. And when the doctor told them gravely that despite all the effort they’ve been paying and all the medical fees that have been paid, Marcel is unlikely to live past the age of 10, he feels Grantaire tense up beside him, so he puts his arm around Grantaire’s shoulder despite feeling a pit, both of dread and empathy building up in his chest. 

They were already prepared to see a defeated little boy in bed, but what welcomed them was a golden-haired boy dressed in a French Enjolras kit who leaped out of bed right as they entered the room. Enjolras couldn’t help but smile at the sight, a cute boy waddling his way towards the two of them. Owing to his condition, Marcel is shorter than an average four-year-old, so he’s barely reaching the waists of the two tall footballers standing in front of him. He wraps his arms excitedly around Enjolras, and Enjolras fondly ruffles his hair before picking him up back into bed.

“Marcel, don’t get too excited,” his mother, sitting next to his bed, laughs lightly.

“Do you know who we are?” Grantaire pokes Marcel’s nose cheekily as they walk back to his bed. Enjolras laughs, feigning a glower at Grantaire but failing. Before entering the room, the doctors have already told them that Marcel is the biggest fan of French football and Les Amis, following every single match in the World Cup religiously and even cheering passionately for Enjolras’ goals in the final  _ during  _ a blood transfusion. The doctors even showed them a picture of Marcel, face painted in red, white and blue, eyes wide and smiling with the needle injected in his tiny arms. 

“Yes!” Marcel answers, thrilled. “You are Grantaire, and he is En-jol-ras,” he makes sure to pronounce Enjolras’ name clearly, which seems to be taking quite a lot of effort, but is just absolutely precious.

“You got his name right!” Grantaire acts shocked, “So smart. Do you know that I spent  _ a week  _ trying to pronounce Enj’s name properly?”

Which - is partly true. It wasn’t as if Grantaire  _ couldn’t  _ pronounce Enjolras’ name properly, after all, but Enjolras remembers clearly now that when they first met, Grantaire spent the first week of training deliberately butchering Enjolras’ name whenever Enjolras would tell him to stop calling him  _ “Apollo” _ . Any name, eventually any noun that started with an E had featured in that first week until Enjolras got quite mad the second Sunday and yelled at Grantaire fiercely. He seems to know what Enjolras is thinking, as their eyes meet and they share a smile.

After tucking the boy back into his sheets, Enjolras hands Marcel the teddy bear that they’ve brought him, wearing an identical kit to the one on his body. Marcel’s eyes light up immediately, gingerly tucking the teddy bear right beside him, patting the fur gently. 

“Maman,” he asks his mother, “Can I keep it please?” To which his mother smiles gently and says, “Of course, Marcel, what do you say to Mr. Enjolras and Mr. Grantaire?”

“Thank you,” Marcel whispers.

What a polite, adorable boy, Enjolras thinks, which makes this all even more heartbreaking - Marcel is such a friendly, smart, well-spoken little boy, a literal ray of sunshine, yet he has to endure so much pain, as seen from his bruised arms and pale skin. “The teddy’s shirt matches yours,” Enjolras provides, to which Marcel immediately flips the bear and points at the kit excitedly to his mother.

As they continue to chat with the boy’s mother, they find out the whole of Marcel’s family are lifelong Les Amis supporters and have always wanted to visit a match whenever Marcel is out of the hospital, but Marcel’s immune system doesn’t allow him to attend matches with tens of thousands of people. Apparently, after knowing that Enjolras and Grantaire were to visit him, he spent every day asking for them and wearing have been wearing his collection of Les Amis and French kits every day for the week, which just warms Enjolras heart completely as the boy continue to grin up at him.

He makes a mental note to himself to arrange a visit to a closed training with Marcel. 

“Do you two love each other?” Marcel asks, “Maman told me that if two people love each other, they hug each other. I always see you two hugging on the TV.” 

That catches Enjolras totally off guard, as he tries to fumble for the right words. Does he love Grantaire? As a friend, surely - does he  _ love _ Grantaire? He’s not sure, but these completely innocent words from a child has got him thinking. He doesn't know what to answer, but Grantaire cuts in before he could open his mouth.

“What do you think?” Grantaire asks, suffocating Enjolras in a crushing hug, mushing his face into distortion. Enjolras yells into Grantaire’s shirt, complaining, but to no avail. When Grantaire finally releases him, he tries to catch his breath, his hair already a mess, but he couldn’t stop smiling as he sees Grantaire’s expression, shrugging at himself,  _ I don’t know, do we? _

He doesn’t know this yet, but what he knows for a fact is that he could still feel the warmth of Grantaire linger in the air.

-

For the third time in six minutes, Grantaire has deliberately dived the wrong way or let a goal “slip past” his hands in the tiny goal on the pitch, him and Enjolras facing thirty children from the hospital on the huge lawn right outside the main building. He doesn’t know  _ why  _ only the two of them are selected to play, there is literally half of the team in the hospital, who are mostly just standing there, taking pictures and laughing at Enjolras, currently “mercilessly tackled” by eight children at once, which is just kicking his shins repeatedly. He’s starting to realise that this might be just as difficult, if not more difficult, than actually trying to save goals in a proper competition.

“No!” He pretends to be absolutely devastated, and buries his head into his palms. From the gap of his fingers, he can see the little girl who scored the goal (an absolute banger, if he were to be honest - the goal  _ is  _ tiny but technically it’s the top right corner), imitating Enjolras’ signature celebration, and Enjolras laughing heartily at it. It’s all absolutely endearing to see - Enjolras trying so hard not to hit the ball hard so he doesn’t hurt the children (he’s so used to hitting the ball with that overwhelming force that always seem to be just enough to beat the keeper and rocket into the net, how ginger he is when flicking the ball is just so funny), being tackled to the ground, half a dozen of little humans piling up on him… it makes his work a little easier, pretending to miss all the saves, because he’s already… pretty distracted.

He’s always been a child hater since he was a child himself - the children around him, growing up, they were always violent, loud, misbehaved little bastards. Not that he himself wasn’t any of those, but the children around him in the neighbourhood growing up was another level. All they did was run around the neighbourhood, bullying smaller kids who were too timid to speak up. Come pre-teen years, before Grantaire ran off to Nice, most of those kids became nicotine and drug addicts, or even gang members, way before Grantaire did, and way worse than Grantaire ever was. He’s sure that if he never ran off, his life would’ve turned out even worse, not only mentally, but also he’d ruin his health irreversibly. He cannot believe how lucky he has it, meeting the right people at the right times, chucking his life back on track and living a moderately (who is he kidding, hell,  _ very)  _ successful life by 25. Obviously, he didn’t join in on the bullies, he was just a shy, timid, stupid guy who failed Math constantly and stayed out in his shabby yard, painting whatever he felt like. But he was never picked on either, they never  _ dared  _ to pick on Grantaire, physically at least, because he was always tall and well-built, athletic, towering above most of the kids around him. 

Sometimes, when Grantaire felt extra righteous, he’d stand up for the poor, tiny kids that are picked on and scare away the bullies. That was when Grantaire still had the drive to fight injustice himself, that was when Grantaire was still the clear-headed boy who, despite being pretty badly treated by his assholes of parents, wanted to help other kids. He’s spent a lot of time at night, thinking about those days, before he totally lost hope in humanity - if Enjolras would’ve met him back then, he wonders if he’d like him. Not that it matters now, but his experience back then has made him realise early on that he really doesn’t like kids.

Logically, yes, not all kids are like the kids he met back in the days, hell,  _ most  _ kids aren’t like that, but he’s just never liked children after every kid he sees reminds him of the terrible time he had in his childhood. It’s all starting to change, though, he feels - before this year, even in the Charity Trains he can’t bring himself not to go to, he’d do his best to avoid any locations that deal with children. Whenever a kid goes up to him and asks for an autograph, he tries his best to act as friendly as possible, and most of the time they’re a joy, but inside his head he still unconsciously wants to get away as quickly as possible.

Recently, though, he thinks Enjolras’ kids-loving nature has really rubbed off on him. He doesn’t really understand why Enjolras has said that he’s “neutral” about having kids in the future, in his interviews, because even a blind man could see how much he loves kids. 

(He does, it’s apparently because Enjolras is afraid that his workaholic nature would cause him to neglect his children, and having children would slow down his pursuit of social justice, which, no doubt, he will continue - so his frenzy for children became “neutral”. Once Combeferre brought his nephew to practice, and Enjolras spent half an hour making silly faces and trying to make him laugh. “I can’t wait for the day you have children, Ferre,” he said, “I’m going to kill you if you don’t make me godfather.” Seriously, he’d cut off his head and use it as the next Ballon D’Or trophy if Enjolras doesn’t end up adopting kids with whoever is lucky enough to end up with him - ugh, just the thought of that makes Grantaire want to punch that lucky bastard.)

He’s starting to  _ actually  _ smile when he sees small kids waddling towards him,  _ actually  _ think that they are adorable,  _ actually  _ enjoy playing with them - and he’s starting to wonder why he didn’t start liking kids earlier, because they are seriously the most precious little souls, especially those they’re serving now. Whenever they gift the kids the tiny signed kits, or hand them the Christmas presents, their smiles could probably light up the whole of Paris. 

Damn Enjolras and damn his influence on Grantaire.

-

-

Enjolras is currently dressed as Santa in the afternoon activity, the lucky draw. He’s lost the rock-paper-scissors yesterday, hence the ridiculous suit and the fake white beard that’s tickling his nose  _ so much _ . The children seem to be incredibly amused, especially the older ones who seem to actually process that the Santa who’s reaching into the balls in the draw box is the same shouting, golden-haired footballer on the TV every weekend. 

None of them seem more amused than Grantaire, though, who  _ keeps  _ telling Enjolras to laugh his Santa laugh, and whenever Enjolras gives him a warning glance, he just shakes his head and says, “Are you the  _ real  _ Santa Claus? How would the real Santa decline my wish?”

“Ho, ho, ho,” Enjolras obliges. The children cheer. They’re all ganging up on him - this is so unfair.

-

“So, what’s the spirit of Christmas about?”

“Giving!” the children say simultaneously. Enjolras is glad that the little lessons about the importance of giving he’s sneaking into his presentation of presents seems to be working very well.

“Alright,” he hears the familiar, warm voice starting from the side of the room - “What about let’s ask what Santa’s wish from us might be, and see if any of us can make it come true?” Grantaire smiles warmly at the children, then at Enjolras. He hopes Grantaire manages to see his smile back, under the beard and all.

“I want Mr. Grantaire to sing a song for the children, what about that?”

_ What the fuck, Enjolras?  _ He must’ve lost his mind. If he wasn’t dressed in a Santa suit and in front of dozens of children plus cameras, he would’ve screamed and crashed his head into a wall. He needs a hole right now to hide. This is supposed to be just a fun little joke, and his stupid brain decided to let his creepy obsession over Grantaire’s voice (or him in general) take over and make this awkward.

He sees Grantaire falter (fuck), but walks right towards him. “You’re lucky I can play the piano,” he laughs, “because I don’t have my guitar with me.”

Well, what’s done is done, and Enjolras better just sit back and enjoy Grantaire’s singing now that he’s already made a fool of himself. Grantaire takes a breath, and his fingers start to dance on the keys. Enjolras doesn’t understand how Grantaire has such a captivating talent - he has no music score or whatever to take reference from, he had no practice prior to this, but he just starts and… it all seems so natural from him. The whole room is completely silent as Grantaire continues his playing and enters the vocal parts.

“O holy night, the stars are brightly shining…”

When he used to go to church with his family, this song was always played around Christmas. He knows the lyrics by heart, but never does it touch his heart as much as this does. Grantaire’s voice is smooth, gentle, and it is so harmoniously incorporated between the piano accompaniment. It’s not the choral, perfect British articulation as he’s used to hearing, but Grantaire’s voice seems to take Enjolras back to the days where there was no stress, where everything was truly for fun and pleasure.

  
The days when he played football because it was fun, and it made him happy, simple as that. Yes, football still makes him  _ so  _ happy, but he’s not just playing for himself now. Every move he makes, every goal he attempts, every word he speaks is caught on camera - it’s as if he’s putting on a show for people instead of playing a game. Not that he’s not satisfied - he’s eternally grateful to feel the public’s support, he  _ loves  _ giving people the joy that he is giving them now, but sometimes it he just wants to be selfish for once, wants to get rid of all the expectations and hopes, wants to get rid of the comments asking for him to  _ just score  _ when he is literally trying the hardest he could. Some people just don’t understand however much they want Enjolras to score, Enjolras wants it twice more. He will always know how fortunate he is for having the chance to do what he likes and give joy to the people, not only in France but all over the world, and he will continue to give his all, but sometimes, moments like these which bring him out of all the stress and attention, the never-ending demands for him to perform… it calms his soul and it gives him a sense of comfort and peace that he’s been wanting so much, especially these few weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously there is again, not much football in this chapter. WAGs are just the wives and girlfriends of footballers. usually they're like rlly hot models lololol. if there is anything u don't understand or references i made that doesn't make sense pls comment i will explain
> 
> anyway :'))) yes i finally finished this and kudos & comments are encouraged i feed on them pls <333 love u all


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another loss, this time to Dijon, nearing the bottom of the table.
> 
> He doesn’t know what’s wrong with the team, he really doesn’t. They’ve been training the same, arguably working harder after the results have started to work towards the disappointing side - it’s been their seventh straight game without a win, their worst run in nine years. There have been extra training, emergency meetings for tactics, rotations made… nothing seems to be working, and they seem to just. Fail to score and fail to defend.
> 
> He's so fucking stressed. He can do better. He needs to do better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back and i hope yall still here :') I'm REALLY sorry for taking three weeks to update, but school's started and I'm in my last year of high school, so it's really busy. starting my applications for uni, I had two lab reports and a few exams to take - deadlines still piling up soon, so might take another 2-3 weeks to update :( very sorry about that but I promise I'm doing my best to write <3 I will NOT give up on this story!! 
> 
> all mistakes are mine.

Another loss, this time to Dijon, nearing the bottom of the table.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with the team, he really doesn’t. They’ve been training the same, arguably working harder after the results have started to work towards the disappointing side - it’s been their seventh straight game without a win, their worst run in nine years. There have been extra training, emergency meetings for tactics, rotations made… nothing seems to be working, and they seem to just. Fail to score and fail to defend. There isn’t even one person or one particular aspect of the match to blame, nothing just seems to be working. He’s still shooting the same ways that he did, dribbling the same ways, passing the same ways - but their attack just seems to be falling apart every match. He fails to connect with Combeferre, it isn’t as if they don’t know what each other wants to do - it’s impossible. But there just seems to be  _ something  _ wrong, the pass isn’t hard enough, it just misses the other… stuff like that. It’s so frustrating, because every chance they get it seems to be messed up somehow. They’d eventually make a pass, but it’s just not accurate enough, that half of a second that might’ve been missed ends up being the reason their opponent’s defence having the time to track back and prevent a goal. The shots he, or his teammates are somehow able to take often end up just wide, or denied by the good ol’ post. 

Not only have they been struggling to find goals, they’ve been letting in goals like it’s free estate for their opponents. There are  _ always  _ holes in their defence, often letting better opponents break their whole defence apart with just one long pass. There’s virtually no organisation in their lineup, and the harder they try, the worse they seem to do. More than once has Enjolras reverted back to his bad habit that he’s worked so hard internally to change - starting to yell at his friends on the pitch because he’s so stressed about the game, then he has to take deep breaths to calm himself down and stop his outburst, which further delays the plays, or even worse, when he really cannot control himself, which has happened more than once, Combeferre has to step in and tell him to “Calm the  _ fuck  _ down”. Towards the press right after the matches who so often opt to interview Enjolras (he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s the captain, or if it’s because interviewing him would most likely give a juicy headline, or a little bit of both), he often, he  _ always  _ has to pinch himself to make himself think thoroughly before every word he says, to make sure that he’s not saying anything bitter or putting the blame on anyone. 

And when he finally manages to get away from the hoards of reporters trying to interview him with his frustration already off the roof, he has to get into the dressing room to see the whole team, both downcast and furious at the same time. Everyone would sit at their designated seats, profanities of all languages exploding through the room, because even if they  _ know  _ that they’ve outplayed the opponent, even if they  _ know  _ they’re so much better than their opponent, they somehow fail to win, and it just is the worst feeling ever. To add onto that, then Coach Valjean will burst into the room, sleeves of his jumper brought up both from the heat of the anger and the heater in the room, calling for them to sit down and shut up, rolling the whiteboard out to the middle of the dressing room, and starting his grilling of the whole team. None of the players would be exempt - Coach Valjean starts right in front with Enjolras and Combeferre as forwards, picking out what they’ve done wrong, and doesn’t miss anyone until he’s made sure everyone knows how terrible they were on the pitch, even the substitutes who’ve been on less than 10 minutes. Enjolras despises the feeling of getting yelled at, but he knows that he needs it. They all need it, and they deserve it. They all know that they’ve been playing like shit, they all have been working hard to play well, but as long as they  _ still  _ are playing shit, they deserve to be yelled at. 

“I’m asking you!” Coach Valjean points at Enjolras, “You say you want to lead the team to win the Champions League, do you think you can, playing like this?”

Blood is still flowing around and around his brain, adrenaline from the game still very much soaring. It’s getting him a bit light-headed, but the shouting directed at him has him kept right on the ground, and his head very much bowed. “No, sir,” he sighs.

“Can anyone tell me why the midfield was so terrible today? I told you, follow the ball, keep the ball, look at your teammates, pass, pass, pass. Don’t just kick the ball and  _ think  _ that someone will receive it automatically! It doesn’t work like that!”

The whole team stays silent.

“I  _ know  _ you all want to win, I want to win, we all do. However, all I can do is help you. Do my best to plan the best tactics, and tell you what to do. Sometimes I make mistakes, sometimes I don’t. But it all depends on what  _ you  _ do at the end of the day. We share the success, we share the loss, but ultimately it all comes from  _ you,  _ you hear me?” he exclaims sternly.

The team makes defeated sounds of affirmation - they all know and love Coach Valjean, and they are fully aware of how much Coach Valjean loves the team and pays effort in helping the team perform better. To make him this angry, they really know how much they’ve fucked up and how terribly they are performing. 

Enjolras hates how downcast the team looks, he hates how there seems to be 23 kicked puppies in the room. He wishes he could’ve taken the responsibility to just get the ball on the pitch, get rid of the opponents and score like he so often did. He knows that he can do it, he knows he has got what it takes. And if he would’ve done it, performed all he  _ could  _ on the pitch, the team would’ve won and he knows it. And his team, his beloved friends wouldn’t be feeling as horrible as they are feeling now. He’s done it countless times, getting the ball at the halfline and dribbling past five defenders to score a goal, he’s done it multiple times in a game. He’s done it against way more powerful opponents - not disrespecting Dijon in any way but hell. If he’s done it against Juventus, why wasn’t he able to do it against Dijon? He’s trying as hard, he’s trying even harder. And he  _ knows  _ for a fact that his athleticism or skills aren’t declining just yet. He’s 23 and thriving, he feels better than he’s ever felt physically. But he’s tried everything he could, everything he’s good at - he’s had free kicks, he’s tried dribbling, he’s tried shooting from outside the box - none of it works. Not that it doesn’t work  _ at all _ , because he’s scored one pretty shabby goal against Nantes last week, a lame tap-in, but that just wasn’t up to his standard and he knows it.

They’ve been sitting comfortably on the top of the table for weeks prior, at one point 13 points ahead of Patron-Minette, but they’ve completely bottled it and are now only one point ahead. Enjolras is  _ still  _ the top scorer of the league owing to the hat-tricks he’s scored at the beginning of the season, but continentally, he’s been overtaken by the top scorer in Spain. And if he could sacrifice every goal he’s scored for a win for the team, he’d do it in a heartbeat. But nothing seems to be going well no matter how hard he tries, and before and after every match, he still has to give his speech to try and fire his teammates up, try and give them motivation and drive that seems to be fading piece by piece as they continue to fail to win. It’s difficult when he himself is feeling drained and beaten - how is he going to convey encouragement and passion if he himself does not believe in it? What makes him special is his never-faltering belief - in the team, in France, in himself. And he knows it. It’s the drive behind his passion, and without that, what is he?

To add on to that, there’s the overflowing messages and posts all over social media. Tweets directed at Enjolras, asking why he’s been performing so badly, begging him to  _ please  _ score, there are memes everywhere about Enjolras and the team failing to win, trolls and Patron-Minette fanatics laughing about it. Instagram posts analysing all about the crisis of Les Amis, news reports with rumours of all kinds, conspiracies of why they’re performing so terribly. He hates it when his fans are so desperately begging for just a goal from him, and he fails to deliver - he plays for himself, yes, he plays for pleasure, he’s so blessed to have this as a career, but he ultimately is also an entertainer. He’s aware that he plays for the people, and he so fervently wants to be able to prove the world that they’ve made the correct decision to support Les Amis, that Les Amis  _ is  _ the best team in the world. Naturally most of the blame is put on him, the 

Enjolras hates it the most, the people talking non-stop, making assumptions that couldn’t be more wrong. Rumours of him and a few more teammates wanting to leave the club, conflicts between the player and the board, most of all,  _ again _ , people saying that him and Grantaire are arguing so much that it causes a crisis in the dressing room, affecting everyone, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. Yes, he's been particularly short-tempered (even for him) these weeks, yes, he's lashed out at Grantaire here and there, but he's been controlling enough to excuse himself from going too far, he’ll gladly pat himself on the back for that, and Grantaire has been nothing short of understanding.

(“You're tired and grumpy, Apollo, go home and take a rest,” Grantaire would say. And he'd sigh and oblige, because Grantaire is right. And Grantaire never loses his temper at Enjolras, no matter how terrible he is. Grantaire knows how to get on Enjolras’ nerves, and he always does, but he never yells at Enjolras even if he deserves one sometimes. Enjolras adores Grantaire, but he doesn't understand him.)

He hates it so much when these “analysts” just go on video and talk all about these rumours like they’re actually happening - and people believing them - not only does it stir up so much chaos online, it affects  _ them  _ as players. He’s refrained from going on twitter these few days, because  _ all  _ he sees are lies spread  _ about _ him,  _ of  _ him, and it makes him equally frustrated and mad. He’s already bothered enough by his own incompetence to live up to his own expectations of himself, and with all the shitstorm going on twitter, it’s just too much for him.

Sometimes he wonders what he's doing this for. 

-

If Grantaire says that this is going terrible, he’s downplaying it 100%. It wasn’t as if he’s letting in many goals, it wasn’t as if he’s daydreaming on the pitch, he doesn’t do that anymore, but it’s just… the team is falling into shambles and he hates it. He hates seeing the team like this, all beaten and exhausted, unlike the chaotic family like he’s grown used to, but he hates the most seeing Enjolras as he is now. He doesn’t think his eyes have left Enjolras much these days, and he’s really fucking concerned, to say the least.

Enjolras had been agitated when the results started to falter just as Christmas came, still focused on his advocacy and day-to-day practices. If Grantaire hadn’t mastered the art of reading Enjolras (it’s stalking, look - it’s literally stalking, just because they’re friends now doesn’t mean that the whole four years of swooning over Enjolras creepily isn’t stalking), he wouldn’t even notice that Enjolras was getting troubled. He still posted his daily twitter lessons and instagram stories for his followers on different social justice issues and appeared in a few marches, to everyone else he’d probably be just the same Enjolras as ever. But he’d been running his hands through his hair more, and when Grantaire would approach him (brave, on his account) and try to steer him away from thinking about the shitty results by talking to him about the dumbest, most random things, he’d still have the spirit to actually smile and engage.

And as the crisis went on and more and more critics were out trying to chirp in with their stupid comments, he’d witnessed Enjolras’ frustration turn into rage. There were glimpses of the old, seething ball of fire Enjolras back at times, when he’d throw the ball out of bounds like it had personally offended him, and honestly, it probably had, it had at least offended Grantaire himself, how Enjolras’ skills weren’t met with goals. Or, more evidently, when Enjolras would lose it and engage in heated arguments with opponents or referees that he usually refrains from. Whenever he saw that all the way back near his own post, he’d be so, so glad that Combeferre was there to calm Enjolras down. He knows that he’s absolutely terrible at trying to calm anyone - God, he barely managed, he  _ never  _ even managed to be able to calm  _ himself  _ when he needed it, so he’d resorted to the only thing that he’s good at - riling Enjolras up. Better to let Enjolras yell at him than yelling at the officials, or media, or even the public. He’s used to taking Enjolras’ temper, he’s damn good at taking Enjolras’ temper. He knows that it would bother Enjolras even more if he failed to keep his cool towards the public media, and it’d be so unfair to Enjolras if all that he’s done to learn and keep his temper in check these months is going to waste. He’d deliberately say something that gets on Enjolras’ nerves, just for him to scream a bit and let off some steam. He knows that Enjolras doesn’t mean harm, he never did, he’d never wish harm on  _ anyone,  _ not even 2015 Grantaire. And Enjolras  _ shouldn’t  _ feel bad for lashing out - Grantaire could only imagine the amount of stress Enjolras is going through, combined with his ridiculous standards held for himself. So many times, he just wanted to sit Enjolras down and get him to  _ relax  _ and stop putting so much pressure on himself. He just wants to get that damn frown away from Enjolras’ face because while grumpy Enjolras is glorious, happy Enjolras is just… magical. 

These few days he’s been staying a little bit after the practices just to train his reflexes - all these extra practices, Coach Valjean did tell the team that too many practices will only lead to more exhaustion, but most of the team still voluntarily practice extra even on off days, with Enjolras definitely leading the way. Every single morning, Enjolras would arrive at the training ground and practice for at least 1 hour - and it’s starting to worry all his friends. They all understand that Enjolras is desperate for a proper performance, they all know how disappointed Enjolras is in himself, but he’s got to be exhausting himself. At this rate, he’s going to injure himself sooner than he knows, he’s going to get sick, or he’s going to completely burn out, and that would be fucking terrible. Enjolras without the flame burning in his eyes… is simply not Enjolras. Whenever they ask Enjolras to relax, Enjolras would just smile gently and try to reassure every single one of them that he’s okay, that he’s still well caught up in his events and appearing energetic, but his eyes never lie, and it doesn’t even take Enjolras’ personal stalker, that is Grantaire himself, to see how tired Enjolras is. Every single member in the team sees it, from the coach to the caterer. And it wouldn’t be long until the media catches on and bother Enjolras more. Judging solely by how Enjolras doesn’t complain much when Grantaire tells him to go home and rest, it makes Grantaire worry about him even more. He suspects the same from Combeferre at least, seeing as to how he has been nagging Enjolras way more than the past few months, almost on par with a year or two ago.

Today’s loss against Dijon is absolutely embarrassing, and he can feel his phone buzzing non-stop, people bothering the team about the again, under-par performance. It’s been three hours since the match has ended, and no one is on the pitch anymore, but he’d spent two hours sorting out some weird paperwork with the administrative team that is needed for the knockout stages for the Champions League - they’d been quite lucky that even though they’ve been performing like shit lately, their extraordinary form from before Winter had been enough to already qualify them. The past hour was spent in the gym reviewing his own videos in matches, discussing with the goalkeeping trainer how he could improve in future matches. He’d probably take a nice shower in the dressing room and go back home, maybe call up Joly and Bossuet for dinner tonight. 

He was not expecting to not be the only one in the dressing room, and he sure was not prepared to see the sight in front of him.

He steps into the spacious training room, just to see a mop of golden curls and a muscular figure perched up in the middle seat, a huge golden 10 labelled right above. Fitting colour. Enjolras, sitting on his locker, has his phone in his hands, staring at the screen, brows furrowed, absolutely frozen.

“Enjolras?” he tries.

Enjolras’ head doesn’t perk up. His fingers continue to scroll at his screen, but he doesn’t say anything. He hears a sigh coming from the man in front of him.  _ This isn’t right,  _ he thinks,  _ he looks so defeated.  _ Enjolras is always victorious.

“Enjolras, what are you still doing here? It’s six in the evening!”

“Reading,” Enjolras sighs, voice hoarse and downcast. That’s strange - because Enjolras should sound demanding, passionate. And when Enjolras glances up hesitantly, Grantaire is absolutely horrified. Because he is faced with a red-eyed Enjolras, a few stray tears still streaming down his face. Grantaire’s mouth falls open in shock as Enjolras sniffles, looking away in embarrassment.

Enjolras never cries. Enjolras shouldn’t be crying. And Grantaire would very much like to punch whichever bastard made Enjolras cry.

“This is so fucking pathetic,” Enjolras whispers as he tries to wipe away the tears rimming his eyes, sighing as he puts down his phone.

“No, no, no,” Grantaire rushes towards Enjolras, “Are you okay? Fuck, what kind of question is that, you’re obviously not… what’s going on?”

Enjolras simply hands him his phone, so Grantaire sits beside Enjolras, glancing at the open tab.

A news article - titled “Peaked Too Early? Les Amis’ Julien Enjolras Show Cracks Early in His Captaincy”, a thousand-word article detailing how Enjolras’ captaincy poses a threat to the team. The article is obviously 100% stupid, with fraudulent claims and simply disgusting personal attacks, and Grantaire is positively horrified by it. Calling Enjolras “incompetent” and “throwing 100 tantrums every day” is just revolting, because 1. Enjolras is  _ not  _ incompetent. He is the most talented person Grantaire has ever met, even when he’s forcing himself to think objectively, yes, Enjolras is meticulously crafted by God himself; and 2. He’s not throwing tantrums, there is a difference between taking your performance seriously, having a standard for yourself than throwing a tantrum. Trust him to say that he knows what an Enjolras tantrum looks like, and it’s not this. He then scrolls through Enjolras’ tabs on his browser - nearing a dozen articles, all criticising his captaincy. None of them make any sense, just stupid journalists trying to seek for attention and the positive reactions from haters. The worst one of all surrounded how Enjolras’ sexuality, how Enjolras’ coming out has affected the team for the worse, and God, Grantaire just wants to strangle whoever wrote that shit. To think about how these stupid articles have bothered Enjolras for so long, has made Enjolras  _ cry _ already makes Grantaire’s hands ball into fists.

“How many of these have you read?” Grantaire breathes. Enjolras never do things by halves - these must be the tip of an iceberg. 

“I don’t know how many, I’ve just been reading these past few days,” Enjolras whispers.  _ Fuck, _ Grantaire thinks,  _ he sounds so sad, _ and it breaks his heart to see Enjolras like this. Past few days - and Enjolras doesn’t know how many - Grantaire can safely predict that Enjolras has by now probably read every single article he could find taunting his captaincy.

“Please don’t tell me you believe in any of this shit.”

“I shouldn’t - I know, but I don’t know. Fuck, I don’t know - I don’t know anything!”

Enjolras doesn’t sound uncertain. He just doesn’t. He shouldn't have to doubt himself, he doesn’t ever doubt himself.

“Don’t listen to those bastards, Apollo, they think they know so much, but they don’t know  _ shit,  _ and we both know it. You’re one of the best players on the planet, you’re one of the best leaders in football, and you’re the very, very best in my heart -”

“Grantaire, I’m not a God. It’s blatantly obvious, judging by recent standards, and what people are saying.”

“Trust me, I know you’re human. But a fucking great human who should  _ not  _ listen to a bunch of bastards saying these shitty things. They’re  _ lying _ . You hate liars. You hate journalists, maybe minus Jehan,” he goes on, “You don’t give a shit about these rumours. You better not. Okay?”

“I know - but -”

“This one saying that I’m the ‘leader of the revolt’ in the dressing room against you? Bullshit. Same newspaper saying that we’ve ‘never been closer’ five days ago. This one saying that you’re hating your life in Paris? Bullshit. You love Paris. And this piece of shit saying that you being  _ gay  _ fucking affects your competency? Bull-fucking-shit!” he’s shaking Enjolras’ shoulders by now, yelling - he’d do anything to get that defeated look out of Enjolras’ face, he’d do anything to restore the light, the fire that’s always present in him.

“I know, I know all of this is stupid, fucking pathetic, I shouldn't be crying for such trivial things, it's a loss, you either win or you draw or you lose, but I’m the  _ captain,  _ I have the responsibility to bring the team together, to lead the team to victory, we’re the best team in the world - and we can’t even get a win against Dijon. People look up to us, Grantaire, people are expecting me to do well for the team, I need to be collected, positive,  _ useful,  _ and I’m none of these now -” his voice breaks, and he starts crying again, a full-on cry, as he starts to curl in on himself, shoulders shaking back and forth violently, “God, it’s just - so  _ stressful  _ sometimes.”

Without hesitation, Grantaire pulls Enjolras into his arms, determined to at least offer some comfort to the beautiful, broken marble in front of him. A hug never hurts, and judging from how Enjolras completely breaks into sobs as Grantaire runs his hand through the smooth golden curls, it’s a good idea. Funny how one of Grantaire’s wildest dreams - to feel Enjolras shimmering curls in his fingers - is coming true now, but Grantaire is nowhere near happy. He could almost  _ feel  _ his heart break for the man in front of him, scratch that, the boy in front of him, it’s quite difficult, usually, for Grantaire to consider that Enjolras should’ve barely graduated from university by now, maybe still studying - if he weren’t a footballer. It’s difficult to put into perspective that Enjolras is two whole years younger than he is - but when he’s crying like this, all sobbing and shaking and whispering his colourful profanities, he looks so young, so small. If fulfilling his fucking selfish, undeserving desires means that Enjolras has to be  _ sad,  _ he’d take resorting to caressing Enjolras in his dreams only any day. He makes sure to hug Enjolras tight, “It’s okay," he says as he continues to run his fingers through Enjolras' hair - and thank God he seems to not hate it, "And you’re not stupid for feeling emotions,” he says, “I know it’s stressful, but we all fucking love you, and we're all here for you, alright? It’s not your fault the team is playing like this, and it doesn’t help working yourself over your limits like this. You look so tired, and I know you are. I'd tell you to rest, but I know you’ll never really relax, that’s okay, but you can’t do this to yourself - it worries all of us. You’re not pathetic, crying is _fine_ \- you've seen me cry dozens of times - did you think I was pathetic?" 

Truth is, he is kind of worried that Enjolras would say yes. Not exactly _shocking,_ but it'd hurt nevertheless.

"No - of course not," Enjolras shakes his head, "I know what you're trying to say."

"Exactly. Cry it out, I'm right here, and I'm not going to tell anyone if you don't want me to. And you’re damn important. You’re never useless. You're a damn great leader. You make us so much better. Hell, at least you've made _me_ so much better.”

He breaks away from the hug, looks Enjolras right in the eye. “Okay?” he asks, Enjolras nodding hesitantly. Tinted with tears, his eyes truly look like sapphires. 

“Remember what you said to me when I was being a whiny bitch and sulking when everyone was blasting my ass for the slandering by Patron-Minette? You told me to block out negative energy and focus on enjoying myself. You told me to take a deep breath and remember what I  _ could  _ do, not what I  _ didn’t  _ do. I know you’re a lot more convincing than I am, but start living by your own words, alright?”

“I remember I was a lot less kind when I said that,” Enjolras smiles slightly. It's perfectly symmetrical on his face - not lopsided, not toothy, just a perch, a slightly upward curve of his lips. It's almost shy, he'd say, but Enjolras and shy don't go together. He’s so beautiful when he smiles - and Grantaire would be lying if he said he wasn't feeling proud of himself, restoring that on Enjolras’ face. 

And well, Enjolras is right, Grantaire remembers Enjolras yelling on the top of his lungs - direct quote - " _You don't get to sulk. You're the one who daydreamed, and it's in the past. It's done. Gone. We've lost. Thank you for that - but what's the point dwelling on it, Grantaire? Exit the tab and put down your phone! What is the fucking point? You like football. You enjoy playing it. You're not bored by it. I know you're better than this. I know you're good. I've seen the best of you. Why are you incapable of fulfilling it?"_

Pretty brutal, even thinking back.

“Same message,” Grantaire laughs. “We all love you - don’t put such a huge burden all on your shoulders. We won't let you do that. You're the captain, yeah, but we're your teammates, not your children. We all share a place in the team, and we’re all in this together, and I know we can do this. I believe in _you_.”

“I thought you were the pessimistic one.”

“I’m cynical, not pessimistic. And if I believe in one thing, it’s you.”

When he sees the smile starting to spread across Enjolras’ freckled, perfectly chiseled face, he couldn’t help but mirror it, albeit a lot less attractively. 

“This is so terrible - I’m sure my sulking has rubbed off on a lot of you.”

“Come on,” Grantaire hugs him again, “Your own words again - you’re just a guy, not a God. And we all need a hug sometimes, even the greatest of men.”

“I didn’t even know I needed it,” Enjolras buries his head into his hands.

“Well, I’m happy to be here and give you that,” Grantaire smiles, and damn right he is.

“Well, thank you for the hug,” Enjolras grins, finally a familiar sight, “but I’m really not that great of a man.”

“You really have no idea how amazing you are,” sometimes Grantaire wonders if his stupid mind could shut up and not blurt out whatever is on his mind, because it’s embarrassing and his devotion towards Enjolras is quite blatantly obvious. Enjolras’ obliviousness is always fun to watch, but it’s times like these when he would totally go down on his knees (not for Enjolras, clean your mind) to praise the Lord for making Enjolras so oblivious.

Now it’s time to unleash his rage to those bastards who dared make Enjolras sad.

-

-

Enjolras has spent the past week relishing in Grantaire’s hug and kind words. It’s still embarrassing thinking about how he’s just cried like a baby in front of his… subject of affection, but Grantaire was so accepting, so understanding - it makes him like Grantaire even more. When he got home after his time spent in the dressing room with Grantaire, he opened his Twitter just to see Grantaire’s newly published thread of  _ pretty  _ viral tweets, which are just profanities yelling at the journalists who published the “fucking fake, insulting, DISGUSTING articles on our team,  _ especially  _ our captain”. Enjolras smiled really, really hard as he was reading the thread, probably the longest on Grantaire’s Twitter account - which is mostly filled with random tweets that are supposed to be funny that Enjolras doesn’t really get. He soon received an all-caps tease from Courfeyrac in the triumvirate chat group, “LOOK AT YOUR BAE STANDING UP FOR YOU!!!”, which he promptly ignored, only to receive five more capitalised messages, all similar in meaning, lacking in nutrients, overflowing in Courf-ness, which he has to reluctantly admit that he loves. He did reply with a few angry emojis, which he thinks is a great leap into a more youthful texting habit - people seem to like using emojis, but his friends seem to be laughing at him and his way-too-stoic texting pattern even more.

(“You must never change,” Grantaire had said, “You sound like a 50-year-old history professor, not the 23-year-old hot football player that has taken over the world.”

He’ll never change.)

“Jokes aside though,” Combeferre texted, “You alright? Something must’ve happened for R to tweet something like that.”

Bless Combeferre for rescuing him, but also - he was not ready to admit that he’s broken down in front of  _ three  _ people in one day, even if two of them are his best friends. 

“Yeah,” he replied, “Had a long talk with Grantaire, I’m okay now.”

Then Combeferre proceeded to send a gif of a smirking man. He groaned into the pillow.

Of course, he didn’t keep the whole story from his best friends for long - eventually, two days ago while they were gathered in Courfeyrac’s flat, Enjolras told them from when he started to read those terribly biased, unjustified articles to after the two warm, sweet hugs from Grantaire. 

“We just - we sat there for half an hour, and he listened to me just, talk about how stressful it was, how terrible I was feeling - and he let me just…  _ cry _ ,” he went on, “I don’t know why - he just - he made me tell him everything I was feeling, and he just - hugged me so tight, he was telling me that it was okay, that everyone loves me, he was stroking my  _ hair  _ and I liked it, but you  _ know  _ how much I usually hate people touching my hair. God, he was just the sweetest.”

And of course, it was met with cheek-poking and laughing, but he could tell that both his best friends, his  _ brothers  _ were incredibly happy for him.

“You really, really like him,” Combeferre had said, fondly, “You’re smiling so much more when you’re talking about him now.”

“I just wish I could make him half as happy as he makes me.”

Even when Enjolras thinks back about the conversation, he still cannot pinpoint the exact reason why Courfeyrac decided to collapse dramatically into the bed and groan loudly as he said that.

And when he manages to relax a little during the match today, against a much better team this time, scoring a rocket goal from the edge of the box. When he took the shot, he was most definitely  _ not  _ thinking about how Grantaire, the cynic who almost never believes in anything, believes in  _ him.  _ Believes in  _ them.  _ The team.

Most of the outfield players pile on him in celebration, Bahorel screaming, “We’re fucking finally out of this miserable state!”, but Enjolras still manages to sneak a glance from the bottom of the pile, catching Grantaire’s fond smile as he leans on the post.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, so sorry that this took so long. really tried my best to write as fast as i could but life is very busy and this school year is immensely important for me.
> 
> in the three weeks that I've been gone, I've gone through heartbreak and back in football, with Messi wanting to leave Barcelona and just in that he'd stay. Imo he should leave though, first of all, it's to man city aka my other fav team, and secondly, Barcelona has a clown ass board who doesn't deserve him. He's been carrying the team for ages. 
> 
> glossary and references:  
> Post - two sides of the frame making a football net  
> 23 kicked puppies, because including the starting 11 and the subs, one match has 23 players in a team.  
> Dijon - an actual team near the bottom of Ligue 1 last season but no disrespect <3  
> Juventus - Serie A (Italian) champions for like 10 years or smth  
> Free kicks - a method of restarting play outside the penalty box after the opponent fouled on you  
> K/O stages - In the UCL, best two teams of each group advance to the K/O stages, aka last 16.
> 
> HOPE YOU ENJOYED! As always, Kudos and comments are my will to live hehe please leave them down below (the longer the merrier teehee)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Today is Valentine’s day - as ‘Europe’s No.1 Bachelor’ of 2018, is there anyone you’re seeing right now?”
> 
> Right, 14 February - he didn’t even notice before. Come to think about it, he’s technically spending the day with Grantaire, since the two of them are also having dinner later - which is both a blessing and a cruel trick on him, because he’d love to properly spend Valentine’s with him, as a couple. Damn his mind, it’s a shame that he ruined everything before he even realised what he wanted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ON TIME THIS UPDATE! WOW!
> 
> I hope you like this update... ;) mostly quite sweet! Again, not beta-read so all mistakes are mine - and I blame them on "ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE!"

Enjolras does love seeing the overwhelming number of viral posts from all around the world (mostly America, but America is filled with popular figures despite it being quite a stupid country in general) in February all about social justice, it being the African American Awareness Month after all - albeit mostly only circling on racism. Which - don’t get him wrong - is amazing, he  _ loves  _ seeing people raising awareness on this issue which has been going on for  _ ages  _ (and  _ very  _ much present in France, and Europe in general, he’d argue that it’s not much better than in America,  _ fuck,  _ he already is seething just thinking about that last time they faced an Italian team and people chanting slurs at Combeferre) - but he’d love seeing people raising awareness on  _ all  _ kinds of social justice in  _ all  _ months. Justice needs to be talked about more, for everyone, in any time and place. 

Despite  not being American, and Americans generally not very interested in football, their loss, (okay don’t even get him started on the whole football-soccer debate, if he hears soccer one more time he’s going to pull his hair out, which would be a shame, because as vain as he sounds, he does love his hair quite a lot), hence the whole African American awareness month not really applying to his whole being or target audience - he’d still use it as a chance to talk about  _ more  _ social justice, though, since people are usually more aware of it when so many people are posting about it. Grantaire likes to call it “chasing clout”, while he’s not even aware of what “clout” means. A sympathetic Bahorel decided to explain patiently to the confused Enjolras, that it means looking for likes and retweets for attention-seeking purposes. To which Enjolras panickedly declines. Well, not exactly declining, because yes, more attention on social justice matters is very very important to Enjolras, and yes, he’s doing it so his posts reach more people, but it’s not for attention-seeking purposes. Anyone who wants to utilise these very pressing issues for their attention is simply despicable. February, however, is still very important in Enjolras’ social justice ventures, mostly because of World Social Justice Day on the 20th. Every year, he would organise some kind of demonstration or activity on the 20th of February to raise awareness on a particular kind of issue. 

It’s a little annoying when there’s a match on the 20th - then Enjolras wouldn’t be able to organise any big event, only resorting to trying to score in the match and writing a message on his undershirt. He knows that some people find what he does pointless, simply showing a capitalised message on the cameras written in red on his shirt, but he doesn’t give a fuck what they think. Taking the highlights on YouTube into account, every match is watched by tens of millions of people. And if only  _ point zero one percent  _ of them cared about what Enjolras wrote on his shirt and decided to look into the issue, that’d still be a thousand people. And everyone counts when it comes to the contribution to social justice. 

After the burden of the non-winning streak has been lifted from him, he’s been dedicating a lot more time into planning a proper event for the 20th. Obviously, he is still focusing hard on the few matches left before the event, but he has been planning different possibilities with his friends for the past weeks, a few proposals already typed up in his Notes app. And in the team dinner tomorrow, he’s damn excited to present the final plan to all his teammates so they could join in. He doesn’t know what good he must’ve done in his past life to have a team full of amazing people willing to participate in most of the events he holds. 

But that’s left for tomorrow night - today, he’s just happy for the biggest win in two months. After ending their depressing streak, the team had been progressing upwards steadily, nearing their best state from the start of this year’s campaign, and today’s 6-0 slaughtering against Monaco, a more than decent team, is a great shot of confidence to the whole team, with him scoring a hat-trick, Combeferre scoring one, Marius scoring one and tricking the opponent centre-back into scoring an own goal. With the knockouts coming back soon, it’s always nice to have a good result to give them a boost of energy.

“Enjolras!” he hears as he enters the players’ tunnel. More journalists than usual today - probably a combination of 1. Both Monaco and Les Amis being title contenders and 2. Champions League season returning soon. He stops gracefully, hair already down and clipped up with two red clips symmetrically arranged on both sides of his head, one saying “Give us peace” and the other saying “Let children learn”, so he addresses  _ both  _ the bastards in politics who are so keen on starting conflicts between countries  _ and  _ the disgusting inequality in education throughout the world. He loves his hair braided by Grantaire, but he wouldn’t want it pulled back for too long. His hairline is a very precious thing to him.

“Evening, everyone,” he nods gently. He’s changed quite a bit in his interviews - but two things remain the same: his outstanding eloquence in both French and English (look, he  _ knows  _ that himself. It’s fortunate of him to be gifted that, but the things he says seem to cling onto people’s minds fairly easily), and his somewhat coolness towards journalists. Years of interviews haven’t steered him away from being wary of sports tabloid journalists in general (he highly admires the investigative journalists who dedicate themselves to uncovering scandals of filthy politicians), especially when he knows that half of these journalists are  _ still  _ waiting for him to slip up and say something stupid like he was so prone to. 

“So, great game for Les Amis today, a 6-0 win,” a journalist starts, “Also a very sunny day - do you think that the Sun, you know, up above, gave you a blessing?” he smiles, as if waiting for Enjolras to give him some particular answer.

“Pardon?” Enjolras frowns - what does that have to do with the match, or him?

“Uh, nothing,” the journalist mutters among laughter, “How did you feel about the match?”

“Of course if you need me to find some flaws, I probably could,” Enjolras shrugs, “but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy about it. We did well.”

“Well, since you said you could, are there any players singled out for flaws you see?”

It’s a bait, he knows, he could tell from the stupid smirk on the journalist’s face. People are still trying to get him to talk shit about Grantaire. Firstly, he doesn’t see how he could’ve nitpicked anything from Grantaire’s performance - a damn clean sheet after all, they only got two shots on target. Well, yes, if it was the Enjolras three years ago he probably would have found  _ something _ , but don’t they see that he’s changed, that both of them have changed? He doesn’t understand why people like to see them argue, to see them in disagreement. When they were arguing, or, when he was being a dick towards Grantaire, people were begging for them to get along. Now that they get along, there are people wanting them to scream and shade and all that shit. What the fuck do they want? 

“The open chance at 3 minutes, I should have clinched it. There were a few plays in between goals that had more potential than it led to, but I didn’t pass it with the optimal strength.”

“Very critical on yourself there,” one of the nicer-looking journalists that he doesn’t recognise speaks up from the left, “You did get another match ball today for your collection, congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he replies gracefully.

“It hadn’t been a smooth journey though, how was it getting back out of the rough patch the team went through recently?”

“It was… difficult,” he hesitates, because he doesn’t really know what the adequate word is to describe the terrible patch. Miserable? Soul-crushing? He remembers clearly using “absolutely devastating” to describe the crashing out of the Champions League, and it was  _ last season,  _ where his temper had already been somewhat in check, not the outbursts he had the past few seasons - there were a few tabloids singling out this literal  _ one  _ adjective and titling the next day - “Devastation from the ray of sunshine - Les Amis captain falling into depression?”. Which he’s determined to not let happen again, since these ridiculous articles take away from the people  _ actually  _ having depression and is just a laughing stock in general. Mental illnesses should be taken seriously, not like… that. “Well, as a team, we worked really hard to reflect and improve ourselves. It was disappointing to see ourselves underperform, but as you can see, we are picking ourselves up and we believe that we’ll be in great form come the knockout stages.”

Another reporter nods, “There has been a lot of speculation on the reason for your underperformance,” to which Enjolras hums in affirmation, and he continues, “obviously the hottest being your rumoured falling out with Grantaire again, what do you have to say about it?”

“I don’t really want to entertain baseless, fake accusations that are obviously targeted to hurt the team and our spirits,” he shrugs, “I am sure you all saw Grantaire’s Twitter post and it clearly proves that we’re friends. Please entertain me with an answer to this - have you seen me not follow through anything that I’ve promised?”

The journalists are silent, but as Enjolras tilts his head, signalling for  _ someone  _ to answer, a girl in the back says, “No”.

“Exactly, and I’ve promised the world that I’ll try my very hardest so me and Grantaire will only grow closer as time goes by. And he is currently a very dear friend of mine. His save today near the end of the match was especially good. Any more questions?”

“Today is Valentine’s day - as ‘Europe’s No.1 Bachelor’ of 2018, is there anyone you’re seeing right now?”

Right, 14 February - he didn’t even notice before. Come to think about it, he’s  _ technically  _ spending the day with Grantaire, since the two of them are also having dinner later - which is both a blessing and a cruel trick on him, because he’d  _ love  _ to properly spend Valentine’s with him, as a couple. Damn his mind, it’s a shame that he ruined everything before he even realised what he wanted. 

“No, I’m not.”

“Anyone lucky guy in your mind? Potential lover?”

It’s still a little strange, everyone knowing that he likes men. People asking him about a “lucky guy” rather than a “lucky girl”, but it’s a good thing. “I guarantee that if there are any updates to my relationship status, it will eventually be made public. Sorry, I have to get back to the changing room. Thank you.”

-

“Y’know, I still really don’t know  _ how  _ you managed to score a custom-designed electric car,” Grantaire tells Enjolras when they get in his car. It’s really a beautiful car - a deep red electric, exactly Enjolras’ favourite colour, with gold streaks for the details - not as gold as his hair, but it does him justice, the car. It’s a Renault, because Enjolras decided that instead of accepting the equally gorgeous Porsche as a present from his rich parents, he’d get himself an electric car from a French economy to 1. Stimulate the shitty French economy and 2. Be eco-friendly.

“That’s because I’m magical,” Enjolras deadpans, tries to do a hand gesture of a magic wand - Grantaire knows that he’s trying to make a joke, but the funny part is how terribly he delivered it. Plus, the fact that it really isn’t that much of a joke, because Enjolras  _ is  _ magical. Or majestic. Or both.

Seeing Grantaire freeze, Enjolras sighs and explains, “I was trying -”

“To make a joke, I know,” he smiles fondly, “You’re so unfunny it’s cute.”

“No one uses the word cute to describe me.”

“Yeah well, I’m telling you that right now, you’re pouting like a kitten.”

“Ferre said the same thing about me,” he mutters under his breath, but Grantaire catches it.

“Well we both know that Ferre is the smartest person in Les Amis, so this proves my point.”

“You’re  _ wrong,”  _ Enjolras hisses, still looking like a kitten, but with hair in the shade of a golden retriever puppy. 

“Focus on the road, Apollo,” he laughs, and Enjolras grunts, glancing back at the road, where Paris is slowly succumbing into the night.

-

“Hey, it says half the price for couples on Valentine’s,” Enjolras says, “you think we should go in?”

“I mean, yeah - this cafe is good, but -” Grantaire blinks. 

“I’m aware we’re not dating, thank you, but half the price, c’mon!” 

He’s beginning to feel a little embarrassed at this point - blatantly asking Grantaire to pose as a couple with him, which, practically, yes, the discount is so damn attractive, but also, it’s technically a terribly selfish attempt of tricking Grantaire to go on a date-but-not-really-a-date with him. 

“Never took you as the kind of person to leech on these discounts,” Grantaire smirks at him, and he swears that his throat made an embarrassing noise that he’s glad no one except for himself could hear.

“Always open to take advantage of this terribly commercialised so-called festival. I believe that love is to be celebrated every day, not just Valentine’s day.”

Grantaire laughs soundly at Enjolras’ rant about commercialism, “God, you’re a fucking gem,” he pulls Enjolras’ arm casually and they walk into the small cafe, the waitress gaping at them.

“Table for two,” Enjolras calmly says, but his heart is pounding like crazy.  _ How  _ could Grantaire possibly just…  _ do  _ things like that, tugging on his arm, when he doesn’t know what it does to Enjolras? It’s so fucking unfair.

He feels all eyes on him. He knows by now that they’ll be all over the internet tomorrow. Frankly, he doesn’t care - he might be just a little bit happy about it. Call him vain, call him attention-seeking, call him hypocritical - yes, he knows that he hates gossip, he hates tabloids blowing up trivial things, but when he sees people stupidly analysing every move Grantaire does and “why that implies a romantic interest towards Enjolras”, it kind of makes his heart go all singing as he overthinks  _ with  _ the articles. He guesses that he could understand some of the fangirls’ mindsets then, even though knowing for sure that these tabloids aren’t real, but still pretending that they are, even just for 10 minutes, to suit their imaginations. 

“I’ll have a chicken mushroom risotto, and sirloin steak for him, medium-well,” Enjolras turns to the waiter.

“You know I like it medium-well!”

“Of course I do, how many times have we eaten together?”

-

This is going too well for him, and Grantaire is beginning to wonder if he’s dreaming.

First off, he already  _ knew  _ that today was Valentine’s, he knew when he texted Enjolras “up for dinner after match vs monaco?” back on Tuesday, and maybe there were ulterior motives, maybe he wanted to be with Enjolras on Valentine’s Day, maybe he wanted to indulge in his (shameful, shameful, Enjolras would say, but hey, he’s not a saint, a God-like Enjolras, he’s just a mortal who, unfortunately, cannot rid himself of these human desires) lust. And, looking at Enjolras smile, the kind that takes up his whole face, the kind that you don’t see in his model pictures or interviews - it just makes his whole day, his whole month. He dreams about that beautiful smile more than he should. 

He was aiming to… trick Enjolras into having Valentine’s dinner with him, which, yeah, sounds very shitty, makes him sound like he’s a conman ( _ Just like Trump!  _ Enjolras would say,  _ America is so goddamn stupid for electing him. He’s worse than Macron and that’s something.),  _ but he swears it’s not that bad. He isn’t going to… make any advances on Enjolras, he does have some morals and integrity and shame, and even if he didn’t, four years spent with Enjolras, adoring Enjolras has rubbed off some respect on him. 

He wasn’t expecting Enjolras to be  _ so  _ aware of it being Valentine’s, he wasn’t expecting Enjolras to just. Comment on it, comment on it being Valentine’s, suggest that they pose as a couple to get the discount - it’s not strange when he thinks about it, he’d do the same with Combeferre, or Courfeyrac, or any of his friends, honestly, but gosh. It’s almost  _ cruel  _ that he doesn’t understand how these tiny, tiny things that he says weigh so heavily in Grantaire’s poor heart. 

“I saw this on the streets yesterday and thought of you,” Grantaire says, attempting to be casual, “Here.”

Enjolras looks confused, eyes widening. “Wh - what for? My birthday isn’t in two weeks.”

“I know, 5th March, of course I know - I just saw this and I thought you’d like it. No occasion, whatsoever. Not at all.”

“Okay,” Enjolras shrugs, then smiles somewhat dopily. It’s adorable. “I’ll open it when I get home. Thank you.”

“It’s funny - isn’t it,” Enjolras continues, “Imagine paparazzi seeing you give me this. Today. It’s going to end up being all over the internet,” he’s perching his lips, and Grantaire already misses the adorable smile, but Enjolras’ default face is this statue-like semi-scowl, which is beautiful, still. “I didn’t get you anything, though,” he mutters.

“Ha,” he laughs nervously, “That’d be interesting, wouldn’t it be? And - you don’t have to give me anything - there’s no reason to -”

He’s cut off by this little kid who waddles towards them and asks for a picture with her baby voice. He’s somewhat annoyed that his alone time with Enjolras is cut off, but the puffy cheeks of the girl are just  _ too  _ cute, and he unconsciously grins when Enjolras’ eyes brighten, picks up the chubby toddler and makes faces at her. They pose for a picture.

-

Enjolras kicks off his shoes quickly as he stumbles into the house. He takes out the neatly wrapped present out, throws the bag of jerseys and shin pads and knee pads and water bottles and all the match stuff onto the sofa, and collapses against the wall. Before he opens the wrapping, though - he fumbles around with it, touches it fondly. 

The present is wrapped in a deep red, textured paper - Enjolras’ absolute favourite shade of red, too. Grantaire has painted a hybrid between Enjolras and a Sun in the middle of the wrapping. It’s highly recognisable as himself - and even though Enjolras has had the blessing to see so many of Grantaire’s incredible sketches, it still baffles him how unfairly talented Grantaire is. In everything. Yes, he knows, if he told this to someone else, that he admires, that he is baffled by Grantaire’s talent, people would just laugh at him because, hell. Coming from a man who’s globally called a generational talent in what he does? But he admires Grantaire because of how naturally gifted he is in all kinds of ways. In football, even when he used to slack off constantly, he still shone as one of the best. In art… it goes unsaid. He posts his art reviews, visits to art museums on twitter, his instagram posts are aesthetic - but he somewhat feels bad for everyone else, not being able to just,  _ see _ the depths of Grantaire’s talent, his own art. A part of him feels fortunate though, to have the chance to see so many of his drawings, to have these little artworks dedicated to him. And the one thing he admires the most is how Grantaire always knows what to say - he calms Enjolras when he’s stressed. He calms Joly when he overreacts, seeing any of the players come to him with a slight discomfort. He’s able to just look at you and smile and calm you - and that’s something that Enjolras doesn’t have. He brings people together, he preaches kindness, and he really cares about people, he tries to show it too - but he still presents himself cold, stoic, intimidating. A stark contrast to the warmth radiating from Grantaire. 

He carefully undoes the tape on the back of the presents. He’s going to cut out the Sun-Enjolras painting (yes, he’s aware, it’s Apollo-Enjolras, but he’s still somewhat disillusioned with that name. He hates the idea of being called a God, but he loves it when Grantaire says it. Not that he’ll ever let Grantaire know.), and pin it up on his bedside wall. It’s a gold moleskine notebook. There’s a message written on it, with Grantaire’s cursive, tidy, loopy handwriting:

_ Enjolras, _

_ That notebook you use for noting down all your plans to change the world? It’s so old and it’s going to fall apart soon. This one is new, and golden just like you. Don’t worry, I’ll still get you something for your birthday. _

_ R _

He’s going to take it as a Valentine’s day present and no one can tell him otherwise.

-

Grantaire’s phone rings early in the morning. It’s a crime, whoever decided to call at… seven thirty on a Saturday, right after a match. He barely got six hours of sleep.

If it was Enjolras, maybe Grantaire would’ve let it slip, but it wasn’t. It’s some unknown number calling, and so he declines it out of spite.  _ That’s what you get for disturbing my sleep,  _ he thinks, and then tries to sink back into his dreams, the ringtone blares again. Guess this person or whoever actually has something important to say, then.

“Hello?” Grantaire grumbles lowly, still bitter from his cut-short sleep.

“Morning, Michel,” the shrill voice from the phone says. 

He knows that voice. He’d know that voice anywhere. He wishes that he could just forget, but he couldn’t. For years he’s forced himself to not remember that terrible voice, all the horrifying memories that come with it - but hearing it seems to send him way back to 2006 when he was twelve and scared and shaking and crying while watching the World Cup in front of a TV in an electronic shop because he was chased out of the house. 

“What do you want?” he grits out. He wants to hang up right then and there, but he could not bring himself to. He grips the phone harder, “I don’t have all day.”

“My dear, your father and I are just struggling right now… he’s just gotten fired from his job, and we aren’t having -” Grantaire removes the phone from his ear, taking a deep breath.  _ My dear.  _ He would’ve done anything for them to call him “my dear” when he was 10. All he was called? “Retard.” “Dumb bastard.” “You pollute the Grantaire family name.”

The last one sounds so ridiculous now. Grantaire  _ never  _ talked about his family to the press, it’s not as if he wants to protect the legacy. He’s talked about his  _ troubled youth,  _ but not his family , not his childhood. Hell, his parents could rot and he wouldn’t bat an eye. He’s spent way too long begging for his parents’ approval - to no avail - and he’s over that. He just simply does not want to relive those terrible times when he talks about it. Like now. His father beating him for failing a Math quiz, replaying round and round in his head. And well, he’s willing to bet that those two bastards probably act as if they contributed to their prodigal child’s success. Not to be ungrateful, but they have done  _ nothing  _ but terrible deeds to him. Starved him when his mother would go out and shop for unnecessary shit and his father would go out and gamble. Physically and verbally abused him. 

Yes, he’s already anticipated it - why else would those two call up their  _ dear son  _ that they never even bothered to check on after disappearing from the family home? Back when he was around, he was the family failure, the one who drew all day, played football with the neighbourhood gang, the one they beat, the one they hated - God, Grantaire could bet that those two bastards rejoiced when he fled to Nice.

Now that their son is rich and famous, they’re flocking back for money. Honestly, Grantaire is surprised that they haven’t called earlier.

“He gambled away all the money, didn’t he?”

“He’s your father! And -”

“Oh,  _ is he? _ ”

“Michel! I cannot believe you’re talking to me in such a way. We’ve provided for -”

“Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up right now. You’ve provided me with  _ nothing  _ but misery. Beating me up every other day, throwing out my art supplies, deflating my football, calling me names - everything. Everything you do has brought me nothing but  _ pain.  _ And you know what?” he’s screaming now. He doesn’t care. “You know what? It took me years. Years to come to terms that I’m not, what,  _ malfunctioned  _ for being the so-called disappointment of the family. That there’s nothing wrong with me. That you’re the assholes. And I spent years to feel normal again, to feel  _ happy  _ again. And I am doing well now - I don’t need you two to be back in my life.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” the shrill voice continues to yell, “If you want an apology, whatever, we can give it to you - but we need the money, it’s nothing to you! You’re a goddamn football star, a world champion!”

“So what if I’m rich?” he’s screaming maniacally now. He hates how they still manage to get into his head. He’s better than this. “So what if I’m a world champion? That doesn’t mean that I have to save your ass after you gamble away your money! And an apology? I don’t want an apology, I want you to leave me alone! Did you feel  _ sorry  _ for me when I was crying in my room? Did you feel  _ sorry  _ for me when I was littered in bruises? No. No! You aren’t fucking sorry. You’re just hurt because your damn  _ ego  _ is crushed! Tell him that too, I’m saying this to the both of you.”

“We’re going to go to Paris,” the shrill in her voice is reduced to a threat now - and it  _ does  _ scare Grantaire a bit, even standing almost two metres tall and this half of his genetic makeup on the other side of the phone only 155 centimetres. “And if you don’t do what I ask, we’re going to tell the whole world how you’re an ungrateful son who refuses to help his poor parents in need.”

“Son? You’ve lost your son the day I left for Nice,” he laughs coldly, “I don’t care. Tell them all the twisted lies that you’re so obsessed with. And I’ll give them the truth.”

“I can’t believe I decided to call you, you bastard -”

“I can’t believe you have the  _ audacity  _ to call me either,” he’s still hurting, he wants to throw something into the wall, wants to break something, wants to scream. But his voice is now reduced to a cold, biting sound as he utters out every word. “I don’t know how you got my number, but you better fuck off and not contact me anymore. I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to talk to you. I’m going to block you right after I hang up, and I’m  _ so fucking glad  _ that I left. Best fucking decision of my life. And I’m glad that Elise left too, last I heard she’s having a great time volunteering in Africa.”

“All these years gone by and you’re still the useless piece of shit,” mutters the voice from the phone.

He hangs up, throwing the phone hard on the bed. It  _ shouldn’t  _ bother him, it really shouldn’t. He’s been through all of this, he’s spent years getting over this. The first years in Nice, thriving in the OSC Nice ladder teams yet still crying at night when he thought about home. Feeling useful in the team was especially important to him because he was so used to feeling useless, invisible. He hated it at home, he hated the neighbourhood, he hated his parents… but he still  _ missed  _ it. The trees, the birds, his sister. He had uprooted everything that he’d ever known, and it’s hard. He was barely 14, still an angsty teenager who spent his whole time trying to get an inch of approval from his parents. And then his downward spiral came, the years spent drowning in alcohol, he was still performing decently for Nice, which was a miracle on its own - bless the skies for that - but he was just empty inside.  _ Ended up a disappointment anyway, just like how Mama and Papa expected me to be _ , he’d think,  _ wasting my life in addiction and failure.  _

And then he managed to turn his life around, establishing himself somewhat in the Ligue 1 and getting scouted by the defending champions, that his, Les Amis. He was still hopeless, he still slacked off, reclined in his own wallowing, he still drank, fooled around mercilessly - but he seemed to be doing something. His life seemed to finally go on track, and there was some kind of light in his life. The depression and pain was still there, pulsing in his body, but it didn’t take up most of the parts in his life. For the first time, there seemed to be more positivity than negativity in his life. And yes, Enjolras was cruel, cold, brutally honest, and sometimes it made him feel as worthless as he did back when he was a timid child, but he could take it - because everytime Enjolras smiled, Grantaire’s world lit up. 

(It still  _ does  _ this to him, and Enjolras smiles a lot more now. So Grantaire’s life is constantly in a warm, comforting sunshine whenever beside Enjolras.)

The past months have been nothing but bliss to him. He’s had bad days, yes, sometimes he has nightmares about his father’s fist landing on his cheek, but it’s generally going perfect for him. Loving friends, great career… putting the unrequited love aside, of course, but that’s already an inseparable part of his life that he’s ready to live with for the next 80 years. And he’s more than okay living as Enjolras’ “close friend”. So he’s happy. Truly happy for once.

And comments from these worthless people in his life shouldn’t matter. Their words have haunted him for years and he really did think that he was over it. For good. And yet, even as he buries his head in his pillow, the insults, the stabbing words, they all ring in his head incessantly like a record track. It’s not fair, he knows what his mother said was completely unjustified, and he did nothing wrong - he has absolutely no obligation giving money to them, and he made the right choice by distancing himself. His friends would be proud of him. He hates how goddamn weak he is though, because it still bothers him  _ so much. _

Joly and Bahorel arrive at his house five minutes after, a bottle of whiskey in hand.

“Look,” Bahorel says, “I know you need this,” he points at the whiskey, “but we’ll keep an eye on you, you can’t drink too -”

“ _ Give me a break,”  _ Grantaire hisses, because he knows he shouldn’t drink, he promised himself not to drink, not to fall back into the spiral, but he needs to forget about this whole fiasco on the phone right then, right there. He snatches the bottle out of Bahorel’s hand and starts to drink. 

“You still have the dinner tonight,” Joly suggests, “Enjolras will be there…”

He doesn't answer, just drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. so you can probably see by now, some /stuff/ is probably coming in the next chapter... I wonder what... fuck R's parents anyway!
> 
> I feel like at this point there's not much glossary stuff to put in because all the references are explained in previous chapters haha - anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading x and PLEASE, leave kudos or comments if you liked it because they feed my usually quite deflated ego and just my soul in general x


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